


The 40th

by VesperL2



Series: The 40th [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Clues, Depression, Drama, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Games, Gen, Hallucinations, Horror, Hospitals, Hypothermia, Inside the Mind Palace, Insomnia, Kidnapping, Loneliness, Mental Health Issues, Metaphors, Mind Palace, Myth and religious references, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Psychological Torture, Repression, Riddles, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Sleep Deprivation, Torture, Warning: Child Death, hyperthermia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:03:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 88,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperL2/pseuds/VesperL2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forty days he had Sherlock in his power, forty nights he made him doubt, forty days and nights took Sherlock to realize there was no way out.</p><p>An old enemy gets a hold of Sherlock and wants to find out how long it would take to break him. While the detective struggles to remember what happened before he was taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wait•ing: |ˈwātiNG| noun. 
> 
> The action of staying where one is or delaying action until a particular time or until something else happens.

 

 

 

 

**The 40th**

Prologue: The Waiting.

Darkness.

 

That's all he could see when he stirred and at last opened his eyes. Deep and utter darkness. The kind of pitch black feeling you get when you can only manage to acknowledge your sight being used because your leaden eyelids don't hang shut before your eyes.

 

His cunning gaze tried to scan the room before him, but there was no data to collect, except the fact that he could not make out anything in that lightless world. He tried to shuffle and like a flick of a switch his mind wrapped up the fact that he was tied up in a chair. He could now feel the rope binding his feet and cold handcuffs on his wrists.

 

He blinked a few times waiting for his eyes to adjust, but the sight never came. He wondered if he had suddenly become blind, and with that he panicked -strategically worried, he doesn't panic- now was definitely not the time for his sight to falter. Maybe John could…John.

 

His train of thought was interrupted and with that his priorities changed. Since one of his other senses was compromised he called out quietly to John, it was never clever to make loud noises in these sort of situations -and they seemed to get caught up in them quite often- but when his doctor didn't answer he threw caution to the wind and yelled, "John! John!" Over and over again until his throat was dry enough to make him stop, but there was no sound to get back from the room. 

 

He started questioning if John was even there with him, but it was uncommon for criminals to get only him. So there were two options -out of the six he conjured up at the beginning- left, either this was extremely personal, or they had John in some other room ready to use him as a hostage, and damn, he hoped it was the former rather than the latter. 

 

Once that realization hit him, he stayed quiet. There was no one to call for, and there it was again, utter silence. He had nothing to go on or try and deduce where he was, or whether they had John or not. He was a man of answers, he could observe, muster up data and expose all of your darkest secrets within minutes. However this time he had no clue, and it frustrated him. Not a single thing to use, except that it was dark, it was silent, and he was alone.

 

 

 

 

* * *

  


 

It was only when he woke up that he realized he had dozed off. His mind barely grasping the fact that he was indeed still tied up in that chair and what happened was not just some vivid dream. He tried to remember when was the moment in which they -whoever they were- got him. When the answer didn't come naturally he reverted to his Mind Palace. He walked around, searching every hallway until he found the room where he kept all this sort of things. When he entered, it came to him.

 

_He was walking through an alley. It was approximately six o´clock in the afternoon. Heavy rained poured down from the sky, so it had been raining for quite a bit. He reached for the inside of his coat sleeves and proved he had walked a short distance when he found them dry. He couldn't remember where had he been before or why was he walking on that part of town, he most likely deleted it, deeming it unimportant at the time, he definitely could see its importance now._

 

_He turned around and saw that no John followed him, which was good. That meant he probably hadn't been there when he was ambushed. Hence he was not taken, therefore this ordeal was most likely to be personal and he was on his own. Good._

 

Having John on the outside world aided him in more ways than one. First, he would quickly realize he hadn't come home that night, and would probably set up Lestrade and his men looking for him right away. Then, for once John couldn't be used as blackmail, that allowed the young man more freedom to do things. And finally, John was safe. That gave him a sense of relief, like he had one less thing to worry about. But that didn't mean that, in his own selfish way, a tiny bit of him wouldn't have wanted it for him to be there too. At least to stop being so bloody alone.

 

_He felt a cold breeze hit his neck and came to know his scarf was missing, and noticed for the first time his hands were covered in blood. That was interesting, he didn't recall being in a fight or getting hurt. This thought was cut sort when he halted and seemed to wait. When two men jumped on him and he did not appeared to be surprised. That was even more interesting, was he expecting them? There was no time to waste so he started punching and ducking -unfortunately taking blows too-. But despite the fact of being outnumbered, he was proving to be a good match to the other two contestants. until the assault turned unfair and one of the men cheated. He put a cloth on the detective's mouth and in a split second he deduced what was happening, and knew he had lost. A second later, everything went black._

 

It was obviously not what he had expected to do that night -not that he actually knew if it was still the same one- and his legs started to feel numb. So that proved he probably had been tied up there for several hours. He needed to remember who he was chasing. Was he even in a case? If he was, why wasn't John with him? and why did he had blood on his hands? These questions rounded his head, and he tried to go back to his Mind Palace, but it seemed impossible. Something had closed the door, and he did not have that key anymore.

 

He stayed still, for what seemed like days, but could've been mere minutes. By the amount of slight air he felt in his bare forearms he knew the room he was in was not that small, but a room nonetheless. Darkness filled every bit of it and it made him nervous, something could have been skulking around unseen and he wouldn't have had a clue about it. 

 

He knew there had to be at least one way out, and he was determined to find it. He listed all the torture devices that could be stored in a place of that dimension. So far he could picture at least twenty one, and those were only the ones he was familiar with. You never know what kind of clever and twisted new toys could his captor had acquired for their meeting, this being obviously personal. There were sometimes fresh ones, always much sicker than the last and he could not picture the sort of tool they will most likely use on him, nor how much pain it would cause him, probably a lot. But in that room everything was possible. He needed to see, even if what he saw was worse than what he imagined. He needed to be sure.

 

He curled his toes at discomfort and moved his bare feet as much as he could. He felt his light shirt weight on his torso -that and his trousers being the only clothing he had on- and it somehow wasn't enough to keep the cool temperature away from his system, he missed his warm coat.

 

Suddenly a light bulb flicked on in the centre of the room, sending a wave of faint light all across it. His pupils slowly starting to reduce to their original size. He thanked that the light was not bright white, but soft yellow, and it didn't have the strength to ignite every detail between those walls, but it was enough.

 

His newly recovered gaze scanned his surroundings at the speed of light and he was surprised to find out there were no threats, at least not ones he could see. The space was medium size, and there was no sort of furniture, just the chair to where he was bound. The paint on the walls was scratching off, he calculated it had been for at least ten years, and it had low ceilings. This was probably used as an storage basement in its glory days, most likely a wine cellar. He could still smell the slight scent of fermenting grape. He searched for the most important thing, a door.

 

It wasn't easy to find it, but after looking as closely as he could with the movement restraint, he noticed an slim -almost unnoticeable- gape in the wall before him, forming a rectangle. It seemed to be heavy, and probably as thick as the concrete walls. It was modified so it could only be opened from the outside and that left him to grasp the fact that he was going to have to wait until he had a visit from whoever got him in this situation. Or for John to come to his rescue. Whatever the reason, all he could do now was wait.

 

After several minutes, he started realizing a weight on his shoulders, as if the life of him was beginning to drip away from his body, he recognized that feeling that tugged him downwards. He knew he had been drugged and it had, at last, started to work its magic through his body. He was almost sure he could see something come out from his fingers, like ghosts escaping, dancing and twisting, ready to get away from that body of his. He didn't believe it of course, he knew first hand all of the effects a drug could have in someone's system, but he couldn't help but gape at the sight. It was all so interesting.

 

* * *

 

 

Once he stirred again he felt different. He could sense something cold against his cheek and one of his legs felt sort of trapped. When he raised his head the room had been tilted sideways -he was the one who tilted- and he was now sprawled on the floor. The chair was nowhere to be found, and his now free wrists and ankles were showing a tinted red stripe. The rope must have burned the skin, but they didn't hurt. He was now unrestricted to roam around the small place, hopefully he would encounter something worth observing. 

 

When he stood up his legs staggered a bit, not yet regaining their full strength, but alright enough to walk. He strode the confines of the area and found few things of importance. The most intriguing one being the fact that there was now a tray of food laying close to the -for now- unopenable door. The food on it wasn't a feast, but it was enough to grant a body with all the vitamins needed, to not cause -except of course, if you were Mycroft- starvation. If they were feeding him well it meant they needed him alive, to help them do something or to torture him as long as possible. He, once again, hoped for the former. 

 

He kneeled to examine the food, smelling it and looking for any trace of poison in it -not that he was planning on eating it- he just wanted to measure what sort of nemesis he was facing up against. Know your enemy and you shall win. There was no sign of any inedible substance, and the vegetables smelled disinfected. There was, however, something off in the situation. He could feel the night coming to a dawn and usually the captor should've made an appearance by now. There was none of that this time. 

 

He was now untied, well "fed" but still imprisoned. He felt like the lap dog his uncle Henry used to have when he and Mycroft were young. He would keep him in a large cage, and buy for him the best dog food he could find. But he never seemed to pet it, or even let him take a walk or two outside that quadrangular hell. Although Mycroft and him always looked past it, now that he thought back at the situation, he realized he sort of pitied that dog. His brother would probably scold him if he knew, tell him that caring is never an advantage, but that creature reminded him of a lonely, friendless life, like the one he used to have. Before he met John. 

 

His uncle claimed to love it, yet it never meant anything more to him than a moving toy. Maybe that was what his captor thought of him -not the love part, but the concept of making him feel like the lesser being in their presence. This was beginning to feel all too familiar, he had been in that situation before, but the one who was behind it was long gone. He was glad he would never have to come down that road again, the last time he saw that man -if you can even call him that- it costed him all he had, even his life. Still it didn't shake the fact that whoever this person was, he was going to play him, maybe until he had nothing left again.

 

He felt frustrated, not knowing what this situation was about. So he looked, he looked for more things that could clue him in the plan he had to conjure up. The food tray stood there, untouched, taunting. He grabbed one of the chicken breasts from the plate and threw it across the room. His mind too caught up to do anything else. As he went to grab the second one he noticed something under the plate. A white flat object, creeping out from below. When he pulled at it he knew it being a note. Three words written out across it in a curly, almost mocking, handwriting. If the tray of food wasn't already an statement of the fate he was about to endure in its own, this made it crystal clear.

 

 

 

 

_“Missed me, Sherlock?”_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the prologue, the actual chapters will be much longer, and they should be coming up periodically but I have school and work to worry about. So bear with me.
> 
> I hope you liked it! 
> 
> Extra points to anyone who can spot clues or figure out things before the characters!


	2. Chapter 1: The Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prep•a•ra•tion: |ˌprepəˈrāSHən| noun. 
> 
> The action or process of making ready or being made ready for use or consideration.

Chapter 1: The Preparation.

 

 

Those three little words seemed to jump out of the paper and dance before Sherlock’s eyes. Yet he did not desire to give in to the fact that they made him anxious. The handwriting and strength of stroke showed they were clearly written by a man, reality which he had already stablished in his head. But _who that man was?_ is the question he desperately needed to answer. 

 

It was personal, and the note just displayed that he had already encountered his captor at least once. That was ill news, there were only so many dangerous criminals who had a reason to hate his guts, and try and narrowing it down to just one seemed impossible, or at best improbable, until he had more information.  He looked down at his hands, and they were still painted in now dried blood. Why couldn’t he remember its source? or the reason as to why it covered a part of his body? There were no signs that declared it to be his own. And he loathed not being able to just waltz in that specific chamber of his mind and pull out the file which contained the answers as he usually did.

 

Whatever they did to him to make him forget, and have the memory quality of an ape must have been extensively planned, for he could assume his brain had put on one hell of a fight. Sherlock could deduce they were trying to make him an idiot, so they could _treat_ him as one. Intellect -at least in his own account- is his one and only quality, rid him of that and he is nothing. That sort of dedication and mastermind power to ruin him ruled out at least nine names of the suspect list, and no matter if his partially slowed down head wouldn’t allow him to place the events of the day prior, there was one thing he will always remember how to do, and that is solving a difficult case.

 

He has always refused to be controlled by someone other than himself -not that Mycroft didn’t tried- let alone not knowing by who he was being controlled. He rolled up his button down shirt sleeves and searched the almost empty room once more, surely there wouldn’t be a thing he would have missed, but he did not have another choice. He turned his head and saw the small speakers hanged at the top of each wall. There was also a camera at the corner of the room, its previously red light now shining bright green, obviously transmitting everything that happened inside there. Great, so now he was also an entertainment. 

 

Whoever was doing this sure went out of his way to make Sherlock become frustrated, any other criminal would flaunt his perfect crime in front of him just to prove him he could not stop them anymore. This one, however, did not seem to be taking revenge, instead it was as if wanting to see Sherlock dance, it was all just a game.

 

If Sherlock didn’t know better, he would have said it was an old enemy of his. But that crazy bloke was now dead and that nightmare was over. But still, for a reason he did not know, he hadn’t taken him off of the list. His captor knew Sherlock could not live without answers, and that is the reason he was providing him with less than few. 

 

Just a single note, and he was expected to recognize his captor with only three words. Surely there have been times he could deduce the murderer just by one colour, but this was entirely different. The clues were delivered in a silver platter -quite literally actually- and he suspected he could be being dragged to a certain answer, a diversion. How was he going to work with fake evidence? But Sherlock refused to give up that easily, there was an answer to all of this and he had to find it. 

 

He sat on the floor, the drugs finally taking their toll on his body, the high was gone at last. He needed to think, the fact that he was stuck angered him beyond compare. He did not even have nicotine patches or a violin to help him think, nor a skull to talk to -although John would have been better. He missed his one friend, he had a way of making him get to a brilliant epiphany. And of course appreciation was always welcomed. John had been a real help in all of his recent cases, not to mention he was the only one who seemed to understand -and put up with- Sherlock and still be able to contribute to society. A conductor of light indeed.

 

A light chuckle escaped from the detective’s lips when he recalled the broken nose he had gotten after sneaking in on him at the restaurant. Maybe the whole “Hello, by the way I’m not dead.” idea was a mistake, but John always managed to forgive him. And now Sherlock was trapped in this cellar with no clue of what he was up against to. But he knew John would come after him, he always did.

 

It was slightly hotter now, probably the sun had started to shine on the outside, although that seemed improbable for the city of London, it had just rained the day before. That’s the first time he pondered the thought that maybe he was not even in London anymore. This was again all so interesting, and if he hadn’t been the one captured this would have probably classify as a nine. The sort of case that was too good to pass. Amusingly enough, now he had to solve it whether he wanted to or not, to save his life.

 

He flexed his legs towards his body and was now sitting with the tip of his hands supporting his chin. He closed his eyelids and returned again to his Mind Palace, -but not before crossing off another three names from the list. They were just too stupid to know how to push his buttons down- remembering who he was chasing before he got caught was crucial. Once inside it, it felt smaller now, diminishing almost. That was not good, not good at all. 

 

Since he was a little boy, he started building up this room, referencing every bit of it to something he must remember. Later, as he started to grow and became smarter, the walls began expanding until he was left with little more than a gigantic castle, full of information and important data ready to use. As an addition, he stored away memories he did not want forget, like the time he met Mrs. Hudson, or the only time his father told him he was proud of him -he outsmarted Mycroft in chess when he was six- he knew his brother had let him win, but still those things didn’t happen very often -try never- and he was not about to let it go down the drain, he had always craved the attention, even though he will never admit it to anyone, himself included.

 

His head, contrary to popular believe, was not a maze, but a well-organized chamber. He had broken it down in wings, floors and rooms, and unlike his flat, it was always squeaky clean and not a single useless thing could be found in there, he never cared for filling his head with rubbish. Needless to say, there could also be found inside it a large area where he deposited everything related to his cabbie-shooter flatmate, and he used to enter there quite often to think. Not to try and solve a murder, but to calm down and just _think_. 

 

Now seeing the place he created and perfected over the years change, was very unsettling. It had never happened to him. Trying to access one part of his brain but never succeeding. Everything else looked in place, yet he had locked out that information. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, just as any other blocked memory situation, it will eventually come to him, and right now no matter how hard he pushed there wouldn’t be a difference.

 

He took another look at the note, not even knowing why he was doing it, everything there was to find out about it, already crossed his mind. He scanned it carefully, every bit of it for hours straight, until he saw it. It was a teensy black dot at the end of the letter _E_. Others would call it an ink excess, but to him it was a curse, for it fell upon him like a hundred pounds of red bricks. It showed the inclination of the pen used, and it indicated they were written by a left handed man. A bloody left handed man. 

 

This was the moment his frustration started morphing into something similar to fear. The note hadn’t changed at all, the paper was still white, the words were still three and the calligraphy was still flirty, even so it had taken a whole new meaning to him. It proved a reality that he did not yet understand. The note had transformed and with it Sherlock’s state of mind. Once a threat, now a death sentence.

 

* * *

 

 

This could not be happening. Not again. His senses had never -except for that one time in Baskerville- failed before. And it made him highly uncomfortable not knowing what to believe in anymore. Although every clue kept reverting him back to the same place, he refused to consider it being authentic. Surely someone must have been playing some sort of sick twisted game, driving him into thinking it was not over. The thing that worried Sherlock the most was that the only one with the intention to do it was the very answer he was running from. This could not be happening. 

 

He thought back to the last moment he saw him. They were having a game of wits at the rooftop of Bart’s. Punchlines coming and going everywhere. The sleuth was sure he could get the data he needed from the criminal, and for a split second Sherlock thought he had him. But then Moriarty pulled out his gun. As soon as he realized what his opponent was about to do, he darted backwards, terrified at the action and a gun shot was all he could hear. Everything happened so quickly that when he wrapped his mind around what he had done a pool of blood was already oozing out of his body. His mind was in a haze, as he saw him there, lying cold and lifeless on the floor. Then he remembered the problem he was in and turned around, phone in hand, and focused his gaze on John. 

 

There was no way he could have survived that shot. He had been there when he did it, at hands reach, and he sometimes -not that he cared to admit it- still had nightmares about it.

 

So how could this be truth? The only reasonable answer was: it wasn’t. His mind was playing tricks on him, someone was just trying to scare him off. Sherlock decided that would not be happening anytime soon, at least not until he had actual proof to believe his worst enemy had escaped that deathtrap. 

 

He took a moment to calm down, and got up from his sitting position. Slowly approaching the camera on the high corner of the wall. He examined it for a short amount of time before tugging at one of the cords. Hopefully not being able to see him through that, his captor would come out of their hideout. Once the wire was disconnected, he lowered his arm and waited. There was something similar to static coming from one of the speakers on the far end wall. Clearly they were preparing them to be used. Good.

 

Sherlock expected to hear something, someone -most likely- threatening him, but the sound never came. Instead he noticed something being slipped from under the door. “Another note.” He thought, and quickly crouched down and grabbed it. This time the message was longer, but clearly written by the same person. 

 

_“Who would have guessed? Little Sherly is shy,_

_Do not fret though, I can still see you :)”_

 

That was it, he did not care who the crazy bloke was, nor what sort of sick prank was he trying to pull, Sherlock was having none of it. With a frown, he crumbled the paper inside his hand. Frustration running its way through his body, rolling down his sleeves again did nothing to ease the fact of the utter discomfort he felt. It was as if he was trying to work out a puzzle but was afraid of whatever outcome it may have- actually, right now any outcome would be better than what his mind was throwing, and damn, he was getting warmer-. 

 

Despite of not wanting to believe in what the clues were feeding him, it maybe was time to consider the situation. His mind already working through all the possible cases of surviving that shot, but he came off empty handed. Death could be faked, this much he knew -more than anyone- but he could not conceive how. 

 

He resorted, instead to the other two names left on the list. Both dangerous, but nothing compared to the criminal at hand. One of them used to work for him though, that was a fact worth elaborating. Yet something did not seem to fit, none of this men could have known the effect, nor the memories the word “shy” had on Sherlock. 

 

Once, when he was fifteen and Mycroft came to visit, he was forced to _socialize_ with his brother’s friends from uni. Mummy commanded the soon-to-be british government to at least introduce Sherlock to them. He was beyond annoyed and just wanted to get it over. He told each of their names to Sherlock -which he definitely deleted- and addressed him to them as his _baby brother_. 

 

When the detective turned around with no more than a nod given, Mycroft said something he shouldn’t have, and regretted it after the reaction it caused -Sherlock throwing a family relic to the wall and breaking it-. He added something at the end of the sentence whilst he was still in earshot. “I’m sorry, my brother’s a little shy”. Probably Sherlock should not have been so affected by this. But he was beyond fuming. He was _not_ shy, he was actually bold, and even -as the ordinary people often put it- outrageously big-mouthed. He knew every sort of human interaction, just didn’t care for any of them. Needless to say, he loathed the word even since, and now his captor was mocking him with something only his pastry-lover brother would have known. Aside the criminal to whom he gave his life story.

 

No chance the word was anything near a mere coincidence. So that too ruled out the other two men, the other options Sherlock would have preferred. Only one name left. He considered, for a split second, the probability of him becoming crazy, but shook it out of his mind as soon as it came. After all Sherlock Holmes is -almost- never wrong. Maybe a few teensy details off, but never something as big. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. This time, however, it may be working against him. For the first time in his life he did not want to be right, he wanted to realize he had missed something, something that would turn all of this in another direction. No such luck.

 

He started pacing around the empty room. His knuckles white from clenching fists, and he could feel a headache already starting to form. He thanked again for the fact that John was not with him, although he did miss him. This was clearly a war he had to fight on his own, and he did not want the blogger to see him do whatever it took to get out of there. Hopefully they would be looking for him and desperate measures would not be needed. At the end of the day Lestrade was a determined man, Mycroft was resourcefully nosy, and John _cared_.

 

* * *

 

 

“Who are you?” He said loudly, into the hushed night air, suspecting the answer, though a little bit of him just wished to be proven wrong, to be corrected. His baritone voice ringing, echoing all over the room, after hours of thinking and analyzing he decided to just ask. Not caring for being too bold. 

 

“Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Holmes?” A loud voice came out of seemingly nowhere. Sherlock halted his pace the second he heard it. He took a split moment to close his eyes and breathe, before opening them up again and search the room. After checking on the source of the sound -the speakers- he finally had a chance to focus on the voice. He knew that voice, that accent, and specially he remembered to whom it belonged.

 

“You look surprised, weren’t you expecting me? I got to say I am rather offended.” He hated that tone, and he hated the fact that he had not seen this coming any sooner. “You... you are dead.” He muttered, fret making its presence in his hoarse voice. A knot already forming in his stomach. This could not be happening.

 

“I guess that makes two of us, doesn’t it?” He paused, acknowledging the fact that the detective despised the memories being brought to him and putting him on the spot. “You shot yourself, I saw you do it.” Desperation ringed through his words, and he had to regain control quickly. Emotion could be the death of him, quite literally. “Oh, but did you?” Waiting for the sleuth to wrap his mind around the situation. The answer left Sherlock wondering its meaning. He _had_ seen him do it, hadn’t he? He had seen him pull out his gun, and shove it inside his mouth. Seen him shot himself, and a dead body bathed in crimson liquid spilled all over the floor. But then Sherlock began to worry, no matter how hard he closed his eyes and tossed all his mind palace around, he could not recall the sight. 

 

It had happened to him before, just after _the fall_. At first he had thought he had repressed it, too traumatic to remember. But as days passed he could see it. He could see Moriarty shooting himself in the head, his humanity -if you can call it that- leave him. However, now the detective got it, he never remembered it, his own mind had constructed the whole ordeal, not handling the fact that even though he knew he was dead, he would never know for sure. He had seen him pull out his gun, and shove it inside his mouth. Seen a dead body and assumed he had shot himself. And now Sherlock could not feel more stupid at making such assumption.

 

This powerfully rattled his cage, how was he supposed to know what was real and what was not? How was he going to tear the two apart? His mind had betrayed him, and he just needed to think. Put aside all feelings and do what he had trained himself to do. Emotions were the reason his brain felt the need to build up a fantasy world where Moriarty did not exist, but he was never going to let that happen again. He needed both, his mind and body, at the same corner on this one.

 

“Got it yet?” The consulting criminal spoke once he saw the other man shift the way he was standing, reaching a suitable conclusion. “I’m glad to know you kept your promise of shaking hands with me here.” He sing-songed cheerfully. Like a proud master. “Here where?” Sherlock asked, not even remembering the conversation they once had about this. “Hell.” The criminal spoke, soft but firmly, and it was all it took for Sherlock to prove his fears, James surely knew how to make his life a living hell -he’d done it before- and he was not going to hold back. It was obviously him, every aspect and side of this spelled out his name. It had always been them, and no one else. Them in a fight to the death.

 

“Oh, that.” He answered back, trying not to let the fact that he was actually shocked show. He relaxed his shoulders a bit, in an effort of letting the man behind the camera know he was not afraid of him, even if that was a complete bitter lie.

 

“It’s funny how _we_ remain on having the same _ideas_ , isn’t it?” The voice pausing and changing pitch all through the question. The detective took this as an attempt from his captor to diminish the fact that he had actually outsmarted him. That he had predicted his move and taken two steps ahead in the board instead. It was impressive that he got away with that, really, he had to give him that. But the brilliance behind the double cheat did not mean the man liked it one bit.

 

“Extremely amusing.” It was a poor shot to avoid the conversation, but it was not entirely false. Although he loathed to admit it, they had already stablished they were two sides of the same coin, and Jim was certainly the only match for his _massive intellect -_ as John often put it-. But the never-ending push and pull between them had died with him at the top of Bart’s, and he had no desire on unburying that old bad habit.

 

“So here we are again _Sherly_ , just you and me.” He started and everyone knows once the consulting criminal has begun there’s no stoping him, but that doesn’t mean Sherlock wasn’t going to try. He was going to say _get me out of here_ , but he knew it was useless. There was no way he would let him juts walk away, and asking for it was plain moronic. “This security system is reeeally good, you should see how well I can watch you right now. You look good.” Moriarty rolled out the last words with venom, knowing very well how much the sleuth was uncomfortable with them. Sherlock shifted weight and swallowed hard. “By they way, trying to unwire my toys was not cool.”  The madman smiled at this, at least he had managed to annoy him a bit, even for just a few seconds.

 

“Just thought it would make you come out and play.” Sherlock said mirroring what Jim had told him the day they met. He wander about the room nonchalantly, trying to appear as collected as he could. Showing weakness would only make things worse for himself.

 

“I’m sorry our meeting has to be this way for now dear, I would very much love to be there in person.” There it was, the characteristic menacingly charming sweet talk Sherlock couldn’t say he had miss. It somehow added power to the man, although the detective couldn’t quite understand how.  “But you know how clients are, they just can’t get enough of me.” Sherlock just flickered his blue-gray eyes throughout the walls, there was nothing he could do for now other than to amuse the man with clever chat.

 

“Same as you with me.” Sherlock mocked him. “Can we just get this game over with so I can go?” He urged, coming off as bored and uninterested. Tired of the repetition from the consulting criminal.

 

“Oh, you’re no fun! I was hoping you stayed here a few days.” He said resembling a whiny child. “Not that you have a say in it.” He ended with a serious tone. Obviously the man was not letting Sherlock go any time soon, not before he got what he wanted from the him. “You are not allowed to know the game we’re playing yet, my dear Sherlock. But for now I’ll send you my friends to show you the rules.”

 

“Are they the same that jumped on me at the alley?” Sherlock began. “I would very much enjoy seeing them again.” He said cracking his knuckles, locating exactly where the other camera was. It was much smaller, and seemed sophisticated, clearly more expensive. Obviously Moriarty knew he was going to try and unplug the other one. And now that he thought about it, it probably was never working in the first place. 

 

“Your wish is my command. Well, I better be off...” James took a chance to chuckle a bit at his own inventive entertainment. Sherlock, however didn’t find it anywhere near amusing. “Why can’t you just tell me what am I doing here? I just solved a case and I don’t have the energy to play your games.” The detective sighed, he wanted nothing more than to get out of there, but a ridiculing “See you later, Sherlock Holmes _._ ” is the only thing he got in response.

 

Silence filled the room once more, and the realization hit him, hard. His deductions _had_ been right, yet he hadn’t planned what he was going to do if they were. But now there he was, with his captor´s name circled and flaring bright red on his mental suspect list, and he didn’t know what to do. Escape was always an option, but there was a high chance he would get caught again, Moriarty was clearly not working alone, and if his calculations were correct -they always were- there were about twenty seven men standing between him and freedom. You don’t have to be a proper genius to figure out the odds didn’t favour him.

 

Apparently -if Sherlock’s internal clock was right- it was sometime around a quarter past midnight. Good thing the detective rarely sleeps, he had no intentions of closing his eyes and having any sort of vulnerability in that room. Anything, the slightest slip and he could be damned. This thought brought him back to that day at the top of Bart’s again. How he didn’t know if he was making it out alive. Two years is a long time, far too long to waste. Yet he was forced to spend them like he did in order to keep everything he -surprisingly- loves alright back at London. Although _alright_ is far from being the world he would have used to describe them when he returned to what he left. It made him wonder what sort of thing he would have to lose to win the battle this time, and to what sort of home was he going to be arriving when he got out. _If_ he ever got out.

 

But there was no time for worrying and over-analyzing that right now. He knew they were looking for him, and even thought the police -Lestrade included- was most likely out of its depth, he had taught John well. And surely he would be picking the pieces quite fast, at least for someone claimed to be ordinary. Statement which Sherlock could not disagree more with. He surely was going to be _receiving_ visitors soon and maybe there would be something he could do to get out of this mess. The soles of his feet hitting the cold concrete as he walked. His long fingers roamed his messy hair and he let out a small sigh. 

 

* * *

 

An uncommon rustle came to his ears several moments later. There was unusual activity at the other end of the door, and the sleuth figured it was time for Moriarty’s pets to come for him. Smashing and clamping his thoughts away he paced to the entrance. If Jim was true to his word, and these were in fact the same men who brought him here, Sherlock already knew their weak points, and their best forts. He stood next to the door, and waited for a bit. The element of surprise would work at his advantage, and maybe rid him of the sensation of being outnumbered. 

 

Seconds passed before the two men came storming into the room. Heavy steps and hurried bodies halted at the middle of the room, probably scanning it with their tired eyes and wondering with their small brains where the prisoner was. Sherlock came springing from behind them, long limbs stretching and grabbing one of them by the neck. Tightening the bloke’s ability to breathe. The other one -taller with brown short hair, scarred right cheek, and grow-in bruises, clearly abused when younger, most likely by his mother and got trapped in this situation at early age. Bribed, probably now too greedy to leave- wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him off his mate. 

 

The madman was a resourceful man, the sort that makes more with less, and sneaking out of their arms was easy enough. He now remembered one of the perks of being almost thinner than a tooth-pick, it worked when he was nine to escape the other kids’ bullying habits trying to rip him apart from his books, or punching him just because he was _too much of a freak,_ and it thankfully still worked now. 

 

Sherlock ran to the other side of the room, his long strides giving him a two seconds leverage. The two other men came rushing across -but not before one of them had to wait and catch his breath first- and tried to corner him. The detective was much quicker than them, and took him no effort to dodge and confuse them. If he made for the door now, he probably wouldn’t get very far, but he was not about to let these idiots get him without a fight, not if he could hurt them first. Lower his own chances of the same happening to him.

 

However, one of them -the one with sandy blonde hair and a very much annoyed expression- grabbed his arm as he ran and twisted him around. The tight grip already giving the younger man a teensy shard of aching. “I got you.” He’d said and Sherlock watched as the other man came tumbling his heavy body to him. He used his free hand to take a swing in his aggressor’s nose direction, and missed just by a few centimeters, the punch landing on his cheek instead of the middle of his face. It was effective, but not enough. Still, it was painfully sufficient to make him withdraw his grasp and call him _little shit_. 

 

The brunette got his revenge for his partly injured mate and thrusted his fist until it came colliding with Sherlock’s stomach, quite badly. The detective backed away a bit, and received another blow, this time on his jaw. He ducked to the ground and crawled out of battle field, at least that would take them by surprise. When he was far enough to stand, he did as he could to not fall flat on his face. The blonde gazed at him for a second and then tackled him to the floor, the sleuth already trying to squirm his way out of his grasp. He was pinned down by one of them and tied by the other. This time it took no drugs to beat him, no cheating -if you consider being outnumbered, fair-. Great, another failure to add to the long lists of mistakes he had done lately.

 

Things in his life weren’t going as he wanted them to some days before he was taken. Criminals seemed more vicious, and even if he loved the thrills, he couldn’t deny the fact of being constantly dragged around threatened made him exhausted. The worst were the _vision_ s, as he liked to call them. A month before, he had started seeing strange things on the streets, men who seemed to be following him, strange looks from faces at the shop, one time he even thought he saw someone who was supposed to be dead. Supposed to not be around anymore.  

 

At first he didn’t say anything, waving it all off, he was probably just too observant. But as the stares became more intense, and the _visions_ seemed to happen more frequently he had no option but to tell someone -John- about them. Big mistake. John had listened intently and had already worried himself out of his mind before Sherlock could even finish to tell him what he thought was happening. When the detective tried to calm him down, it only made him more preoccupied and by the end of the next day he had -after having an intense row with him and somehow winning- forbid Sherlock to walk out of Baker Street. 

 

Sherlock then decided -more like absentmindedly ranted about it in front of him, and realized it when it was too late- to tell Mycroft all about it, in hopes he would help him convince the blogger to calm down a bit. Even bigger mistake. His brother took the doctor’s side with a much worse reason, he got worried but not because he believed Sherlock, but because he thought his brother was paranoid, hallucinating even, and expressed his _concern_ to the Yard.

 

Lestrade decided then that the detective was probably too unstable to do the job, probably had been working too hard, and demanded Sherlock to stay away and _rest_ , at least until his mind was well enough to take cases again. So, to resume, it was already a week in which he was not allowed to work or to set a foot out of the flat, fact that ended in royal boredom; his nosy brother was constantly nagging him about his health and updated their surveillance status for the second time in one month -he was now a grade six- and his flatmate was a nervous wreck. Not to mention half the Yard had now, thanks to Mycroft, what they liked to call _real proof_ that Sherlock was crazy.  What a joy!

 

Moriarty had raised from the grave to haunt him again. Sherlock understood now that those weren’t visions, he wasn’t really going insane. Those were actual living things, waiting on the lines to attack him. Somehow this thought did nothing to calm him. He had no time for this now, he had more important things to worry about, like the two men handcuffing his both hands to a water pipe. 

 

After they were done and Sherlock was surely not going to move from the spot he was, the other two men smiled to each other, they were clearly preparing him for what was to come. They had him just the way they wanted him, and there was nothing he could do about it. “So, Derek, what do you think we should do to him first?” The man said to his brunette companion, turning around and rolling up his sleeves. They were probably going to beat him up, they had no torturing objects and the sleuth suspected they would get some sort of sick satisfaction doing it with their own hands. “Maybe we should start by showing him who’s in charge.” The other replied. Typical, Sherlock thought, stating authority was very commonly used by captors all over the world, and honestly it disappointed him a bit, he had expected a little more brains coming from Moriarty´s minions, not that it meant he was not most likely going to end up with his guts tied around him by these blokes.

 

The first thing he felt was a fist colliding with his already wounded jaw, blood dripping from his lip. Philip -the sandy blonde six-footed beast- took two more swings at him and he just tried to bear the ache. His legs were still free, and a kick to the other man’s lower regions was effective enough to make him back away, only to be replaced by his mate. A very furious Derek took leaden-feet steps towards him and returned the favour. Sherlock almost doubled in pain, but decided against it. These bastards won’t see him break, not now, nor ever.

 

He was pushed further to the ground until his back almost touched the floor and his arms were stretched up above his head. Then the brunette booted his side over and over again. The detective felt something crack inside him, sending a wave of pain unto the brim of his humanity. _Two broken ribs_ he thought, and he spat out some of the blood from his mouth. He was already in desperate need of medical care. His eyes, however, still had that menacing glare, as if saying _My body is just transport, you can’t break me_. This, obviously was not appealing to his butchers, they desired to see him want to crawl out of his skin just to ease the torture he was going through, and when no matter how much they hit him -by now he had three broken ribs, and a finger, a dislocated shoulder, bruises in his face and abdomen, and blood trickling down from several cuts all over his body- he was nowhere near as miserable as they wanted him to be, they got quite angry. 

 

Philip stood above him, eyeing him down as a cat who’s finally caught the mouse, and laughed a full-throated chuckle, deep and resonant, that made Sherlock try desperately to rid the handcuffs off his wrists, to get away from these bloody madness. This gave the attacker a motive, an opportunity and he pressed his foot into Sherlock’s chest, the broken ribs crushing at his insides as his breath was completely lost. 

 

For an split second the detective thought his heart was going to be squashed and he would be left there, lifeless and with a shattered chest. What an awful way to die, in the hands of these brutes, compressed to nothing by their brainless beating. Sherlock did not want to go like this, ´tis not that he had given his own death much thought when he was younger, but as of the second his feet left the edge of the Saint Bart’s rooftop and his body was sent flying down rapidly to his possible end, the concept of ceasing to be stung him, and he realized if something was to go wrong with his plan and he was actually to die then, it would have been for the best of reasons. At least, even if his trick failed, he still was able to save the people he cared about. He knew he, whatever the outcome, had made the right decision and that alone was enough for Sherlock to close his eyes and just trust it.

 

“You thought you could beat us, you little shit. We may be done with you for now, but our master sure isn’t.” They had said when they decided the sleuth had had enough. Apparently, with the conversation he happened to overhear as he was being beaten ruthlessly, he managed to gather some data. Moriarty had told him to _shake him up a bit_ , and that after he was done with his demanding projects he would be there in person to explain the game to Sherlock. A game he was most likely going to be forced to play by the criminal’s rules. The devil always plays fair, just a bit fairer for himself.

 

In the time Derek and Philip were in the room with him, Sherlock had seen enough to deduce their whole dull lives, from their young years of school and braces to their training. They had been instructed for about two and a half years exactly for this task.  Probably since the second Moriarty came to know he was, in fact, not dead, he had been planning this. A way to destroy him once and for all. This was serious business and despite the case of his body being badly injured, his mind was intact and running, and damn, he was going to use it.

 

* * *

 

 

A whole day seemed to pass, and Sherlock’s insides hurt. Crushed bones are never good. He recognized the wounds and injures were made perfectly thought through. They all were painful, really painful, but -except for the broken ribs and finger- none of them were deep enough to cause any real damage. Agony without evidence. Brilliant.

 

It was all too careful, Moriarty was no doubt a clever man, perfectly delicate on how to handle a situation like this. The detective’s body was betraying him yet again, he hadn’t eaten anything in three days, nor slept in almost four, so it’s an understatement to say his body needed maintenance. Sherlock had no desire on doing either of them, poison, ambush, torture, murder, these and more: were all a probability if he were to show any weakness in this place. He was not about to trust these people even in the slightness, not to not put something in his drink, or take him away when resting, but his stomach was _too_ empty, and his head _too_ drowsy. 

 

He had to stay focused, he had to stay awake. Ignore the hunger and the tiredness. Those aspects that once made his body be on a state of hyperawareness, of super activity and energy, now where starting to weigh him down, he had put them off for too long and they had begun taking their toll on his mental abilities. Maybe a quick nap would get his brain running again.

 

He sat with his back to the wall, and positioned his arms as limply as he could being handcuffed to the pipe. He took, not three, not four, but five soothing breaths and closed his eyes. His body relaxed nearly instantly and he decided he was going to doze off for a few minutes. Not fully deep sleep, but mere drowsing. He didn’t want to be unaware of what was around him, of what was happening to him, just rest his drained self and try to gain back control.

 

When he was about to loose consciousness the door opened swiftly, and like a storm there came steps. Sassy dress shoes clicking on the floor, approaching Sherlock by the second. The detective sighed and kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, already knowing what those steps meant.

 

“Wake up Sleeping Beauty, daddy’s here!” He heard a high pitched voice taunt him, and lifted his eyelids. There he was. The vision of the supposedly dead man all dressed in Westwood and wearing a huge smile, staring back at him with those big brown eyes that seemed to suck Sherlock in and drag him to the bottom of an abyss inside his pitch dark soul. He looked just the same as he remembered him, an unfortunate turn of events. The sleuth wanted to believe that seeing him wouldn’t affect him this much, that maybe his mind had extrapolated this man’s vicious nature and that the actual criminal would appear as a watered-down version of the monster that often haunted his memories. He was wrong.

 

After him there came Derek, who placed a chair in front of Sherlock for the criminal to sit and headed off again. As soon as the door shut locking them both inside, and they were alone again, Jim started talking. This time much calmer, but no less secure. “So, do you like the place?” He asked, and the madman just glared at him. “I think it’s rather fantastic, although it is in desperate need of some decoration. But who’s got the time for that?” 

 

“You did not come here to talk about which colour should the walls be painted, James.” Sherlock said more of an statement. Completely aware of what his adversary was attempting on doing, he didn’t have the strength nor the mind to engage in clever chit-chat.

 

“ _James_? I think I like it when you call me that, it sounds machiavellian.” He answered grinning. Flirting was surely something he knew how to do, how to make people feel he had them under his thumb. “Anyway, I’m here to talk about you.” With this, the detective shifted his body a bit and sat up straighter, reaching a far more comfortable  eye-level between the two.

 

“What about me?” Even though he hadn’t ingested anything in days, they were forcing water down his throat every four or five hours since the day before, so his vocal chords were not dry. His intention, however, was to stay alive and he was not going to achieve it by yelling at the beast. So he just responded nonchalantly.

 

“What are we going to do with you, Sherly? Since the day I found out you were just playing dead, I sent one of my snipers to...” And the criminal trailed off, Sherlock was no longer listening or even looking at him. His eyes were fixed on something in sight above Jim’s left shoulder. “What?” He had asked and turned around to see what in the world could possibly be more important than what was happening right then. When his body angled and his vision landed on the item of the detective’s attention, the solution surprised him. He saw a plate of food.

 

“Oh, you’re hungry.” He remarked smirking, and the madman cursed under his breath, he should not have let this man witness a vulnerability on his part; but he was famished and there was nothing he could do about it now. “You haven’t eaten a thing since we brought you here, have you?” The brown eyed kept staring at the hatred in the other man’s ocean-like eyes. Hatred towards him, and hatred for the fact that he was actually spot on. The answer to his question already painting a picture on his face.

 

“Here,” The criminal got up on his feet and strode to the meal plate, he picked it up and brought it close to the sleuth. “Eat, my dear. Do not let me stop you. I don’t want you to starve and die on me.” He placed the dish in Sherlock’s hands and smiled saucily at him, as if trying to be charming. 

 

The curly-haired man peered at the food. This was not good, Moriarty is only kind when he is about to crush you, the calm before the storm; and this could mean but one thing: he was damned. He decided then his appetite was officially gone, he casted the dish aside and returned his gaze to his nemesis. “Please do keep going.” 

 

“You’ve got questions. Of course you don’t need me to tell you the reason why you’re here.” Jim stated, sitting back on his place. “I’m here so you can burn me.” Sherlock replied honestly, there was no point in beating around the bush, there was only one way this conversation will end, and that was with him trapped there and the criminal walking out the door triumphantly. 

 

“That’s very true, I’m glad we didn’t have to go through that conversation again. You see, I also like experiments very much. So we’re going to do one together,” He got up and paced around the room, casting glances now and again to Sherlock -who still laid seated on the floor, scowl on his face- and talking eagerly about his plans, like a boy with a new toy. “So you, as the subject, will perform some tasks, and we will monitor your efficiency. You are to do everything me or my little friends tell you to.” These words were flying out of him like a waterfall, easily and strong, and there was no way of making them stop.

 

“What if I don’t?” Sherlock asked playing strongly, he still had pride and he was not ready to succumb to whatever mean the bloke had in mind, no way was he going to become their test subject.

 

“Oh, you will. Trust me Sherly, you will.” The criminal replied and his eyes turned a shade darker, Sherlock was sure he could see something breaking loose inside of the other man’s glare, he had released the monsters. “I have my ways, but let’s just hope we won’t have to resort to them.” The look was gone as soon as it came and the detective let out a mental breath. 

 

“So what are the results you’re hoping to obtain from this said experiment in which we are supposedly going to collaborate?” This question could only bring a foul answer, but the game was already being played and if Sherlock didn’t move one of his pieces he would approach more promptly to his final destination. “I wish to know how many a time it would take for the world’s only consulting detective to finally snap. How long for the madman to actually become... mad.” He walked closer to Sherlock, his back arching a bit to face the sleuth. “I want to know what will it take to break you.” 

 

“Sorry the results are going to be disappointing. You’ll find that you cannot, in fact, break me.” Sherlock’s chest bounced up and down more hastily, but he remained poised. The criminal knelt down and reduced the distance between them a bit, faces merely inches from one another and two set of eyes locked on what could be the destruction of either of them. Finally Jim said breathing the same air as the curl-headed man. “Then show me what you’re made of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! And also know that I'm hiding clues in all the chapters, so if you spot them feel free to tell me!


	3. Chapter 2: The Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Test: |test| noun.
> 
> A procedure intended to establish the quality, performance, or reliability of something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Child character death.
> 
> If you wish to avoid it, you can just skip the part between the ***

 

 

 

Chapter 2: The Test.

 

 

He was running. Running as he had never run in his entire life. Springing and dashing around through the streets. His legs were striding hastily on the pavement. He tried to coordinate his breathing with his movement pace, but it was too ragged. He had to get there in time, before something bad happened. Before it was too late.

 

His chest was beginning to burn with exhaustion and he could swear he felt a tug of despair inside it too. He shoved the thought down and kept running for dear life. He could hear the sky stirring, a storm was drawing near, and somehow a shadow could be felt growing in the distant horizon. He had to beat the odds, if he arrived but a minute after he should his whole world would crumble and shatter apart. If you had told him, he would never have believed someday he would be this stupid.

 

He took a left turn and then a right one, his feet were starting to sense that crushing feeling one gets after having walked all day and his leg was not alright yet. But he could not stop now, it would only mean giving up on the one real thing he hath ever had. He had to keep going, no matter how much it hurt; because if he didn’t, it would hurt all the more.

 

Just as he was about to reach his destination, he heard a heart-wrenching scream. An acute cry that sent all his body in shivers, and as he rounded that last corner, what he saw almost made him stumble over, he was late.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock awoke abruptly. Sweat dripping on his forehead, and his lungs were trying hard to keep up. His stout brain quickly reckoned his situation, and he looked around to determine if there was any threat in there with him. When he was sure there wasn’t, he relaxed and sank back into the floor. It most have been a nightmare.

 

Two hours. He had slept for two hours, and even thought they weren’t nearly enough, they helped. He felt renewed, like he could think again. Now, if there was only something inside his stomach. 

 

After his conversation with the consulting criminal, he kept nodding until tiredness finally got the best of him. It was an unintended rest, but as soon as it hit him, it was more than welcomed. He had to think of a way to get out of there, as he was sure he would not hold out another complete day without sleeping again, and the idea of being attacked that way wasn’t a pleasant one.

 

He roamed across the room, for his hands were untied now. Moriarty had said he couldn’t see the point in the handcuffs if he was already sure the detective was not going to attack him. He was right, Sherlock -even though he had every desire to place his hands around the criminal’s neck and squeeze until his whole body went limp- wasn’t going to try and harm Moriarty. Not because he didn’t deserved it -because he bloody well did- but because it would only mean bad news for him too. He knew they were looking for him, and he was going to do whatever it took to be alive when they arrived. Killing Jim would only result in his own destruction.

 

He bent down and lifted the plate of food from the floor. After a few minutes of analyzing it and searching for any traces of a substance that may harm him, he took a bite of whatever was in the dish. He honestly couldn’t care less exactly what it was he was eating, he just needed something to keep going. As soon as he deemed it _enough_ , he stopped and tossed the dish aside. 

 

Sherlock has never been sure in whether or not he believes in higher power, but there have been some occasions where he could as well imagine someone was somehow watching over him. Certain moments where he couldn't believe he was that lucky. When he solved his first case, when he met John, when he didn't die at the fall, all of these and more the detective had listed and painted across a mirror in a chamber inside his mind palace. Where he could look at them continuously and remind himself that whoever God was, he thought he deserved all the things he had laid out in front of him; things that would appear mere chance but were actually the reasons he was still alive, all that he lived for. It was not logical for him to accept it, for there was not physical proof whatsoever; but something inside the sleuth always wondered if things happened without a purpose, without someone or something planning them. 

 

However, he had proof about the devil. Moriarty has stood in front of him a million times before, and he is one of the devil's servants. A demon -if not the devil himself- and wherever there's darkness, there must have been light to compare. Silence the absence of noise, and evil the lack of goodness. So if the devil exists, someone who is his rightful adversary should too. Sure, the detective was decidedly not an angel, and will never be, but he liked their side better; and the fact that this snake was winning over him, over _them_ , made him feel outraged. This man shouldn't have the possibility to control lives like this, to break souls like he enjoys to do; he should be nothing, and nothing he would be, Sherlock realized, had he not let him had that sort of power. He should have stopped him at Bart's, he should have stopped him after Carl Powers. 

 

The detective loathed the idea to think himself and Moriarty were not so different. That's why he was so afraid of him, not because of his twisted mind or his love for crimes -Sherlock had those too- but it was the fact that they were so alike that made his stomach curl, to think that somewhere deep inside him there's the potential of him to become exactly what the criminal is, he just had but to cross that line and all would be doomed. He is a smart man, and not the local nor the international police could do anything about it. He'd be worst than the consulting criminal, and his crimes would be so neatly and brilliantly sealed that no one would ever have the ability to get to him, except perhaps himself.

 

So he sat down, at the middle of the room, four walls pinning down on him, crossing his legs and joining his hands under his chin as a child would when praying and he began to think; because that's how Sherlock prays, and he has never known how to do so in any other way. 

 

Whatever experiment the criminal must be planning it could not be good, or lacking in painful aspects for the sleuth. Waiting for the inevitable was unbearable, so his Mind Place was probably the place where his brain could find some peace at last. He opened the main doors and took a left turn, passing a few halls and chambers. A few locked doors being left behind, which contain so many secrets the detective would never be able to confess to anyone, not even as much as think about them, just guarding them there, inside his mind where they could not scape nor disappear. 

 

When he found the room he was looking, he entered and closed the doors behind him. He had missed the smell of dusty books and wood. It was amazing, really, how he could create an alternate universe and live within it when he needed it. When reality was too much to bear, he could always resort to his own mind and calm down. Intensely shutting the outside world had always done the trick and this time was no exception.

 

_He set to relax his body a little and took one of the books from the bookshelf. Placed himself on a comfortable sofa and opened it. He traced the pages with his fingers, there were no words in it; weird as it may be, none of the books in his Mind Palace had any form of writing, just pictures, and Sherlock liked that for a change. Images of things he enjoys doing were making their way through his thoughts. All those experiments with fascinating results, all those cases solved. Everything in his life had a purpose and a sense, and the sole event of something changing its harmony was not acceptable in the slight-less._

 

After what could have been possibly hours Sherlock opened his eyes once again. Just in time to hear steps outside the door. And in came the consulting criminal, and Philip, along with a red-haired little boy who had been tied up and muted by a cloth tightly wrapped around his mouth. The sight made him sober up from his almost peaceful thinking, this was no way near good.

 

The little child was placed just in front of the detective, and he looked terrified. Jim stood behind him, he had yet to speak a word, but the smirk in his face grew bigger as he noticed the concern run through the sleuth. Sherlock watched as the boy cried scared to death and felt a brief tug inside himself. This boy shouldn’t be here, there was nothing this child could have done to even deserve to be in this psychopath and his minion’s presence, they probably got him with scarce effort.

 

How did this criminal had managed to have an empire this big was beyond him.  He had invested two of his precious years chasing about each and every member of Moriarty’s organization until he was able to dismantle everything up until his right hand. Now he was back and as the clever man he was, he built an entire new corporation within months. That was the problem, Sherlock thought, he got rid of the web but failed at killing the spider, needless to say, a new web it weaved and weaved until no thought of it ever been destroyed remained. 

 

The detective fought the urge to deduce anything from this little defenseless creature before him. Knowing the outcome this encounter was likely to provide he couldn’t be as cruel with him or as foolish with himself to find out more about him, it would soon prove useless and counterproductive. So the madman decided to focus all his scrutiny to the criminal’s figure. Triumphant already with his shoulders back and hands over his hips. 

 

He was staring back at him, a silent conversation going on between the pair and muffled sobs in the background were all they could hear. The exchange consisted in Jim smiling _“I’ve won”_ , and Sherlock glaring _“How can you do this?”_. Then, their discussion was interrupted when Moriarty called Philip. “Hand me the gun.” He said to him and the other man quickly complied. Sherlock reluctantly averted his gaze from him and took a turn to watch the boy, between six or seven years old, full of youth and potential, all of that now probably gone from the future.

 

“You are not doing this.” He warned the criminal, he was not going to let him get away with this.  Sherlock was bound to endure this hell, this child wasn’t. Maybe the detective had brought his own fate on himself but he certainly wouldn’t allow the man to hurt such a small individual so brutally just out of power. Moriarty was not playing fair. Three other men Sherlock didn’t recognize entered the room while he spoke and went to stand behind him, he was already feeling crowded.

 

“You’re right, I’m not.” Jim was tracing his palm and fingers through the soft surface of the gun slowly, examining it. When suddenly he came to a stop and turned his head towards him. “You are.” He said handing him the revolver. The expression in the sleuth quickly paled as he refused to take the gun from his hands. “If you don’t do it, the four men behind you will aim at you head and are not going to miss, dear. I advise you to take the logical decision.”

 

Sherlock scoffed at this. _“As if,”_ He thought. “Let them shoot me; as much as I value my own life very highly there’s nothing you can say to make me change my mind.” There were no words in the english language -or any other language for that matter- to ever convince him of such atrocity. 

 

“That’s it? You’re just going to let me shoot you to save a child?” He tucked his hands inside his trousers pockets, with an exasperated look. “You really are boring.” His tone lowered two octaves.

 

“And you really must be insane if you thought I would even consider it.” Sherlock spoke up bravely, he was not going to play this sort of games, even if that meant losing them. Moriarty handed the gun back and crouched before the boy. After inspecting him for a little while, he stood up again and turned to the detective. “I guess it was too soon.” He had said and gave him a disappointed grimace. “I’ll have to plan something different.” And made for the door, but not before giving Sherlock a small smile that would have almost looked innocent if he hadn’t seen the face it belonged to. 

 

This made the detective wonder for a moment what had just happened. Usually this wasn’t the way things went, usually evil didn’t just go away. He never expected Jim to just pout and take it; he was expecting some torture, maybe blackmail, but nothing. Sherlock just passed the test, or he failed it depending on the point of view, even though he felt like he hadn’t done anything, and that’s exactly what he did: nothing.

 

***

Just as the criminal was about to get out of sight he called out “Oh I almost forgot, Philip dear, shoot him anyway.” And wide-eyed Sherlock turned and spoke as quickly as he could “Don’t!” It was not enough though.

 

It all happened too fast, he tried to shove the child away as the other was aiming the gun, but it all happened too fast and a loud bang was heard. The body of the little boy fell limply unto the ground and before the sleuth could do anything he was being almost carried to the water pipe, where he was handcuffed again. 

 

A pool of red was already forming, racing through the extension of the floor at light speed -or at least that’s how Sherlock saw it- and his stomach made a turn; the detective regretted having eaten anything, he was close to returning whatever it was he ingested. A few more men came in and removed the little body; others cleaned the blood away and the detective just watched them numbly. Realization catching on to him. He truly was powerless, and was not a player in the chess, but a pawn; and as soon as Moriarty got enough he would dispose of him, that was for sure.

***  


 

* * *

 

 

After what Sherlock decided to call “the boy incident”, he was left more or less alone for two days. They would seldom come, dropping a food tray to the floor next to him and forcefully making him drink whatever it was they brought when they entered  — for it certainly didn’t taste like water to him — sometimes going as far as physically opening his jaw with strong hands and forcing it down his throat when he was being _extra-feisty_. Still, Sherlock knew better than to believe they were going to leave him be for good. 

 

On day number six since he was taken, sounds started coming from outside the commonly quiet door. They were coming again, most likely to run another one of their tests on him. Until then, Sherlock had never loathed experiments before, guess now being in the petri dish for a change made him exponentially develop a disgust towards the idea. He liked observing, not being the object of observation; it made him feel helpless.

 

A hoard of men came through the door, following the consulting criminal, like some sort of twisted parade just to show off their power. After the main event and the crew of servants, entered eleven more individuals; a company of all sorts. Men, women, children of different ages, and Sherlock’s insides began to rumble with the anticipation of what was more likely to come. This was going to be a bad night.

 

The one-person-short dozen of them were lined up against the far end wall, with bags over their heads. He heard some muted crying and sobs, and something that in other circumstances he would classify as laughter; though now it creeped him out a bit. “I’ve got good news, Sherly.” Moriarty paced about and approached him. He was clutching in his hand an item Sherlock could not identify, yet he seemed to hold it with such a delight that the detective could only deduce it was used for inflicting pain. 

 

“You are not going to need these anymore,” He had said as he wrapped his hands around the handcuffs and turned a key to open them. Sherlock slid his hands out and rubbed one of his wrists with his palm, they were sore. James strode back and began to speak again. “I got myself a new toy, I was going to tell you what it does, but I thought it would be much more amusing to watch you deduce its purpose.” He said as he brought the plastic item closer to the detective’s face, as if putting it on display. 

 

Sherlock glared at it and then at Jim for quite a moment before sighing and gazing over the piece. He was not going anywhere, he might as well humour the bastard. It took him less than a minute to realise something, and when he did he could only say he was no surprised. “You are not going to shock me in order to make me comply with everything you say.” 

 

“Oh, always so serious.” He smirked and forwarded his left hand to press the device against Sherlock’s arm. It stung a bit and sent bolts of lighting running and twisting through his insides. It hurt and Sherlock let out a small groan of pain and quickly flinched his limb away from the consulting criminal. When his eyes ghosted downwards he still could feel pain, but there was no physical sign of it. “My russiantechnology associate designed it. It doesn’t leave a mark on your skin, nor does it provokes permanent damage to the nervous system.” He explained while twirling the plastic gadget around his fingers.

 

Sherlock regained composure physically, but was startled on the inside. The shock not quite yet wearing down. “It was quite expensive,” the consulting criminal began, “but I am too much fond of you to cheapen this experience.” He said softly, almost trying to be soothing; and it sent shivers down the boffin’s spine. He sat up and gazed around a bit, piercing eyes throughout the line of people. “It is really unique, reminds me of you.”

 

“Whatever you have in mind, I won’t go through with it. No matter how many times you decide to shock me.” The madman spoke, confident and sure. There was a particular girl in line who gasped quietly at everything the criminal said, and Sherlock saw her clutch a toy between her fingers every time. His statement, however, seemed to calm her and the corners of his mouth tugged up a bit. He always thought children to be annoying, but he sometimes preferred them over boring adults; they were unpredictable, curious and more often than not, they hadn’t developed any vicious nature yet  — except for James who committed his first murder at age eleven — unlike perverse grown-ups. 

 

“See, this is a game we’re going to play,” he paused and glanced at the girl. “And you are going to play Sherlock.” He said toying with the shocker nearly as cheery as a christmas day. “It goes like this: Each and every one of this individuals will die,” His finger signalled the eleven hostages against the wall as he spoke sing-songed words like velvet out of his mouth. Sherlock could almost see them depart from him and disappear into thin air, leaving behind only their meaning and cruel significance; the sleuth wanted nothing more than to capture them and shove them back into Moriarty’s evil throat, he wanted him to taste what they felt like to himself, for to him they sounded only of despair. 

 

“Unless you solve each riddle and pass each challenge; you’ll be given one test per individual, if you fail I’ll let my pets have some fun.” This was the real test, this was where he was expected to prove himself, this was where he was most likely set up to fail.

 

* * *

 

 

The first riddle was easy, to such a great extent that the detective kept wondering if it was a trick. Fortunately it wasn’t, and a middle aged woman was carried outside and -supposedly- released. The chalice filled with what quite looked like blood was emptied to the drain and false praise was given for such an intelligent man. 

 

Sherlock didn’t like it one bit; he craved recognition, that was true, and appreciated it when John would do it, but coming from behind the teeth of the consulting criminal the words “amazing” or “brilliant” just felt _wrong_ , tainted. Patronizing somehow, and humiliating even. 

 

The next four were a bit more difficult, he solved the two riddles and completed all the challenges nonetheless, which were not as bad as one may think. Sure, they were no picnic, but the detective handled them well enough and four more where let go. The torture devices intended for them were casted aside; Still, Sherlock could not figure out how they were planning on tormenting someone with a box of frogs or gnats; and even thought the curiosity was ripping at the seams of his mind, he did not want to find out, and was glad he didn’t have to.

 

By the time of the sixth one a day had already passed, he had been put to sleep -almost forcibly but necessarily- and had been shocked at least three times an hour to make him obey when he was misbehaving, and suddenly Sherlock felt like a dog for the second time in a week. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Now, you know what’s inside this, Sherly?” Moriarty said holding up a syringe. Judging by the colour and consistency of the substance in it, the detective could tell some details, but not enough to form a suitable deduction, so he just waited for the other man to elaborate instead. “This right here, is a bacteria, Staphylococcus aureus. I’m sure that rings a bell, doesn’t it?”

 

It did ring a bell. “Boils.” Sherlock muttered and Jim gleamed. Oh, what the grown-child would give to have the pleasure of ripping that taunting smirk off the criminal’s face. His tests were becoming more vicious and honestly, rather tedious, but the detective couldn’t deny that he had been interested more than one time. Not that he would ever admit it out loud, but this had always been how he entertained himself, solving brilliant crimes.

 

Still, the word “boils” was not something to play with. Sherlock knew about this disease, and of its imminent side effects: Painful death. He turned his head around and realized the girl was next. “What’s the riddle this time?” He asked hastily, the puzzles were ranking up higher each time and Sherlock’s impatience had nothing to do with the fact that they were _oh! so fascinating_. 

 

“I have a feeling you’ll enjoy this one. Two men,” Moriarty commenced. “Long time friends, are reunited at a high class restaurant.” This was all it took for the detective to become aware of this one’s importance and the self-proclaimed sociopath already hated where it was headed. “They both order their meals and one of them orders seagull soup as a celebration of his friend saving his life.” The criminal continued. “Once it arrives, he takes a spoonful to his lips and tastes the soup. He stands up and excuses himself from the table.” Seagull soup? So, this wasn’t about John and himself after all. Sherlock felt close to relieved.  

 

“The man heads to the stairs and climbs them all the way to the top of the restaurant building. He gets to the rooftop, walks to the edge and -oh! you’ll love this- steps off committing suicide.” Those phrases were pressing on his chest like a hammer; no matter if he’d survived and his life was back to normal, to that day Sherlock still couldn’t hear the words _“rooftop”_ or _“suicide”_ without mentally wincing. “Before you go there, he was not threatened, or manipulated. He had no illness and wasn’t drugged or poisoned.” He said with a grim smile, how he loved to watch the detective squirm against his undeniable victory. 

 

“His wife had died at a tragic accident three months prior, the three of them were shipwrecked, and she was the only one who didn’t make it, the poor. Ending a loving and perfect marriage of years.” The detective was still dumbfounded when it came to Moriarty portraying human emotions, his skill ranked quite far above his own. “So riddle me this Sherlock...” By then, Jim was sitting in a chair a feet away from Sherlock and kept casting glances at his hostages before turning to the detective once again. “Why did one taste of the seagull soup caused this man to end his life?”

 

This was where Sherlock’s mind began to roam. Floating through the never-ending possibilities, stars passing by and theories exploding like supernovas. Thousand miles an hour, collecting all the data and picking apart the details. The answer of the riddle was hidden somewhere deep inside. It could have been sentiment, the man, somehow, remembered his wife thanks to the soup and was overwhelmed by the memory. Sherlock disposed of this idea rather quickly, if it was his wife’s death what got him upset he would have killed himself before then, somewhere between the second and fifth stage of grief -he was clearly over with the seven stages, otherwise he wouldn’t have agreed to go to a restaurant, let alone order something to “ _celebrate_ ”. No, this was something new, something he didn’t know but only realized at that moment. Still, the revelation, however surprising, had to be unbearable enough to lead this man to think he had no other option but to throw himself off the building. 

 

Sherlock was familiar with that feeling. Sure, his reasons were probably nowhere near resembling the seagull soup man, but they were there, there was always a _reason_. The detective had never in his life felt a despair that strong before. A feeling of hopelessness that dictated only one way out of this. It’s true a thing such as “not having a choice” is nothing but an illusion. There is always a choice to make; the problem is whether you’re willing to live with the consequences. Death, is, and will always be, in and of itself, an alternative; although not one most people will take. 

 

For example; right now, the detective didn’t _have_ to solve the riddle. He could stop trying if he wanted to, and the child would be dead in less than two days by a vicious sickness. However, after seeing the little girl, and hearing that persistent, sometimes annoying voice -which for whatever reason sounded too much like John’s- inside of him telling him to do the right thing, he decided he would not let that happen. Hence he _would_ solve the riddle.

 

Standing at the rooftop of Bart’s, he was offered a choice. And even though the action was difficult, making the decision wasn’t. He had to choose between dying -faking his death- and let the criminal shoot his friends -not exactly a brain teaser. Losing the few people in his life who actually cared about him and he cared about was not an option. 

 

He felt a bolt of lighting riding through his veins, startling him out of his train of thought. Jerking his shoulder away he glared at the criminal. “Don’t stall.” He said, and his voice sounded more deep and thick that he had ever heard before. “Then let me think.” He spat back and the criminal raised his hands in a defensive manner, _“Oh, how innocent.”_ Sherlock thought as he tried to revert his mind to the issue at hand. His thoughts returned with a vengeance. 

 

He thought about the little girl, and how his time was probably growing thin now; it would be minutes, if not seconds before Moriarty would call up victory and the tiny human would be damned. Sherlock needed to think rapidly, get the answer, figure out the motive, _solve_ the riddle. But his brain couldn’t help but to wander, some of the facts hit too close to home for him. Rooftop, restaurant, suicide, friend, reunion; they all made the detective feel the slight guilt that he hated but had already become accustomed of, despite himself. He couldn’t deny -at least not to himself- that even though John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had forgiven him already, he still felt he was never going to be able to repair the damaged he’d done.

 

His decision had worked though, his friends were safe, but they hadn’t been alright. There always was something he’d missed. But it was definitely worth it. Sherlock realized if your friend’s life was at danger, you would do anything to prevent the situation. Do whatever it took to help, no matter how despicably unthinkable the thing was. Even though if it meant you had to lie to said friend. The truth would be out eventually, obviously, either by something uncovering it or you telling them out of guilt. But it is always meant to come out, and once it does there’s no going back. John had punched him in the face, but the sour taste in his mouth was nothing compared to what -oh. _Oh._

 

Death was sometimes the answer, when things were too much to bear, and apparently the man of the riddle agreed with this too. “He fed her to him.” He spoke up, leaving James shocked by the answer to the riddle that he thought would never come.

 

He had actually planned for this one to surpass Sherlock’s intellect; of course he would get it eventually, but he never imagined it would take less than two minutes for him to arrive to a correct conclusion. “Care to elaborate?” He said not ready to admit defeat yet.

 

The detective took a deep breath and started. “A couple and their long time childhood friend take some time away and go sailing in the ocean. An unexpected storm hits them and they are shipwrecked, the wife dies tragically after this. When the two men -and the corpse of the woman- washed ashore on a deserted island the husband is deadly sick and in need of some medical attention. Starved, weakened and on the brink of death, the friend becomes desperate so he chops off the wife and cooks her. While feeding the husband he lies, and tells him it’s seagull soup knowing he would refuse if he knew the truth. After a few days they are rescued, and when they meet again at the restaurant the man orders the seagull soup as a celebration. When he sips it, he becomes aware of the difference between the tastes and realizes the only food available in the island was his wife. Not being able to cope with the thought of having eaten his own wife, he sees no choice but to kill himself.” He said hastily and the row of hostages were amazed of the man’s ability to talk on end without breathing. 

 

“Amazing.” Moriarty replied sarcastically. The curly-haired man knew he was right but waited anxiously to receive affirmation. James turned on his heels and stared at the girl. “You should really thank him, he just saved you from being slowly murdered.” The child sobbed uncontrollably; the detective couldn’t resolve whether to be angry or relieved. The criminal shook Sherlock’s hair in a sense of faux endearment. “Isn’t he a good boy?” He questioned more towards Sherlock himself than the others in the room. The detective decided he was angry, definitely angry. “Stop it.” He hissed back and Jim smirked exiting the room along with the remaining hostages. 

 

* * *

 

 

Three people, three tests left, and he was already feeling exhausted. He averted a death by electrocution with ice, and one with locusts. Even thought it took solving a difficult problem and bearing four hours tied to a spinning wheel. Needless to say, his mouth still tasted of returned food and the room was still turning. Sitting on the floor, he took a look to Derek. He seemed smug and Sherlock had the hypothesis it was as a chain reaction of his own torment. He felt miserable, therefore Derek was gleaming. _Bastard._

 

The dizzy detective pondered which situation could be worse. Being the object of torture under the criminal’s games, or actually being as stupid as to agree with this sort of life. The grown-child concluded it was probably the latter rather than the former. He now, felt like hell beyond compare, he thought; but he believed his mind -unlike his physical being- was free. Free of Moriarty and the turmoil he could cause within him.  He would live to stand corrected.

 

Derek talked about something that looked important to James, but the detective felt far too dazed to be bothered and try to listen. His currently gray eyes glanced and roved over the room lazily. He was taking in the information, of the now opened door, clearly forgotten to be locked by disregard of one of James’ nameless pets. He could see a tiny hallway and some stairs up, the echoes of the voices in it suggested they weren’t a lot. His, was apparently the one and only door. He wondered briefly where did they keep the other prisoners. He had, until then, counted a certain amount of minions and was already planning the most efficient way of escaping. He was sick of being played at, and it seemed better to wait for John to find him in the wilderness that was probably outside the house, than to stay one more moment with this beast. 

 

Attempting to flee now, however, wouldn’t deliver the desired result, it was stupid to think it would. So, he’d work up a scheme, and wait a bit longer, if by then Lestrade,  John, or Mycroft -or the three of them- hadn’t arrive, he would make a run for it. 

 

As if on cue, Moriarty turned his attention to the detective at this reflexion, and Derek looked a bit offended with the sudden lack of interest he got from the criminal. Jim half-closed his eyes and scrutinized him, then he smiled. “ _He is aware of my thoughts,_ ” thought Sherlock. His eyes were calm, frighteningly calm; and they did nothing to soothe the already racing mind. That must be what James Moriarty was really like inside. Without the games and the charades. Just calm Jim; not dangerous Jim or wild Jim. No, there was no passion in his stare, only cold cruelty; just _dead_ Jim.

 

The look lasted a bit longer and it gradually became a nonchalant shrug. And as the eyes of the criminal left him, Sherlock could breathe a bit lighter. He could do this, he _would_ do this. He would get out of this and make Moriarty pay for what he has done.

 

He tried to stand up but staggered and fell flat on hi face. He wondered when the room would cease to twist sideways whenever he moved his head. Twenty minutes after he was released from the tight-gripping straps wherewith he was bound to that spinning death trap, and he still felt nauseous, he would definitely think twice before eating again in that place. Not that he would stay much longer.

 

* * *

 

 

“Darkness.” That word was repeated several times to him while he was trying to work out the answer to the ninth riddle. “What’s the only question in life which can never be truly proven nor answered?” Moriarty had asked and it sent Sherlock flying inwards, searching inside his mind palace for he knew he had heard that before. Maybe in a case someone had uttered a similar statement, although right now he couldn’t remember the reason behind the familiarity. 

 

Strangely, after a few seconds it became crystal clear to him, and it was easy enough for him to not stress about the dire consequences. Painful deaths had been the threat before, but he couldn’t imagine a crueler one than utter darkness. “What is like to be dead?” He answered correctly, again. When he put some thought into it, all of the riddles and challenges had had something to do with the detective’s life indirectly; of course he couldn’t respond it literally, but they both had been “dead” in the past, and here they were again, playing in hell. Once he came to know this he chuckled slightly to himself, Moriarty really had planned every detail. Perfected and predicted every move, so much that it would almost be amazing if it wasn’t for the fact that he was not expected to come out of it alive.

 

“Isn’t it funny? I like it better when you appreciate the effort I have put into this.” Jim smiled friendly, and it sent the detective right down from his light-headedness. No, _no_ , he was laughing at himself, at how he got into this ridiculous situation, not _with_ him. Never with him. He would rather take a needle and effectively sew his own mouth shut without any sedative whatsoever, than to appear to be enjoying himself at the expense of this criminal.

 

“I solved it, now let the man go.” He swallowed hard and kept a straight face once again. “Oh, not so fast. We are going to need all three of them for the last test.” The two young men were asked to kneel in front of the older one, the resemblance  between them was outstanding. “If you can tell me which punishment am I to enforce here, they can walk free of it.” Jim stated.

 

Punishment, how was he expected to know which, out of all the ninety one known to him -not to mention the ones he was yet to be familiar with-, Moriarty was planing on using? One could only imagine it was not a traditional one, but damn could this man turn almost anything into a torture instrument, including -especially- the ones you hold most dear.

 

Jim was a cruel man, but Sherlock knew he would never deliberately give him a riddle he couldn’t possibly answer. So the solution must be hidden somewhere inside the whole ordeal. It was a rather broad field of options, but it somehow was narrower than the previous, so that was a start. Surely there had to be some sort of pattern that Sherlock failed to detect in the past, but the other punishments seemed to have been  chosen randomly to him, he couldn’t conjure up the thought of the relation between such un-wired situations. 

 

How could anyone ever think blood, ice and frogs -among others- to be anywhere near linkable? It probably was some social general culture he hadn’t heard or hadn’t cared for before. It was the sort of situation in which John’s ordinariness would come rather useful, but he was not there to help nor to enlighten Sherlock.

 

To be honest, the detective had already decided it was better that way; after all, every time he ranked the criminal or situation at hand _too_ dangerous he’d always leave John behind and go by himself. The blogger had made it an habit to severely scold him afterwards -especially since his return from the grave- saying he simply couldn’t do that, that it was not fair for him to be left in the dark, but at the end he would always forgive him and go buy more milk, as he knew that Sherlock didn’t do it because he didn’t care, it was the exact opposite. - _“If I’m about to go out there and do some bat-shit crazy stunt I want you to at least tell me the fucking truth behind why I an doing it!”_ \- A flash memory came crashing unto his skull, previously unremembered and uninvited, and it left the detective in a haze, for he could not place where had that come from. This had never happened before, the voice sounded angry, fuming even, and he couldn’t imagine an scenario in which he would have deleted something like that by choice, so why couldn’t he reminisce this? It certainly costed him more than he bargained for though, as a voice cried out from the outside of his mind palace that his time was over. 

 

“Give me one more moment and surely I’ll figure it out.” He attempted to gain time. How could he have wasted five minutes effectively _not_ solving the puzzle was beyond him. “I gave you plenty of time Sherly. Either you give me your answer now, or I’ll take it as losing by default.” Sherlock thought for a second and then said “Flaying.” It was a shot in the dark and by the look Moriarty was giving him a it was an ineffective one.

 

“Very well,” He said. “The tide was meant to turn someday.” And it was all the affirmation he needed to know he had failed. “It’s rather disappointing though,” Jim shrugged disillusioned. “That you would believe me so obvious as to peel their skin off as the consequence. You already heard me threaten someone with that before.” Bummer, Sherlock thought, as if letting the psychopath down was the greatest of his worries. 

 

“So will you do it, or shall I?” Moriarty said, and it took a second for the madman to realize he wasn’t talking to him, but to the older man standing in front of the other two hostages. The man he thought he had let off the hook when he solved the last question. “You know what happens if you don’t, at least this way you get to keep one.” Jim said, using his softest voice, and if trying to persuade this man. Sherlock came to know that they must have talked while he was in his mind palace trying to win this round -and experiencing the strangest of flashbacks-, Moriarty was attempting to make this man kill one of his sons, with the extra incentive of ending them both himself if he refused.

 

“This was not the deal,” The detective spoke, maybe there was a way of righting his wrong, although he doubted it would be because of a technicality. “You said one hostage per riddle.” And Moriarty actually laughed at this. “Oh! Sherly aren’t you smart?” The mock was not appreciated. “Whether it’s just one or the two of them is entirely for this man to decide. If he would just stop being so boring.” James and him were really kindred spirits, and he could not loathe himself more for it. The criminal looked at the older man and waited for the answer to his previous question. He was actually going to make that bloke shoot one of his children just to spare the other. 

 

After a few minutes a shaking voice finally responded. “I’ll do it.” And the consulting criminal handed him the gun. The man took it, and pointed it to one of his sons; The sleuth brace himself for the shot.

 

“Do it!” Moriarty cheered, and it somehow reminded Sherlock of when he was little and his teacher unfairly coaxed him to participate in a tedious sport match. The man put his finger on the trigger. The detective wondered if he had chosen one himself or if Moriarty had suggested the eldest. If so, why would the Irish man care which one he decided to pick to fulfill the criminal's punishment? Unless it was the whole point of this torture, for the man to kill his eldest son. 

 

“Wait!” Sherlock cried, he could stop this. “Do it!” Jim snarled in return. “Don’t!” And the curly haired man felt all too much as the angel who stands in one’s shoulder as an ingenious visual metaphor which represents the abstract concept of conscience in cartoons. “Don’t!” He said again despite this, there would be other times to remind the criminal that he was not, in any way, a winged being. “Do it now or I’ll kill this one too!” Moriarty yelled, and quickly after that Sherlock heard a bang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!


	4. Chapter 3: The Punishment.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pun•ish•ment: |ˈpəniSHmənt| noun.
> 
> The infliction or imposition of a penalty as retribution for an offense.

Chapter 3: The Punishment.

  

Have you ever wondered why do people fear? How could a person have a negative reaction towards something intangible? Something inexistent? How could a mind already reject an event which it has never known? The truth is not one soul has ever departed from this life without having experienced worry in some fashion. Nor has anyone ever been able to successfully avoid feeling it once it’s made a home in their brains, no matter how illogical it may prove to be. 

 

Could it have to do with our constant need to control our surroundings? Could it be a matter of hopelessness? Maybe some people could say they know the reason behind their own concerns, and this could be correct at some level, but never has one have an explanation as to why we prove to be completely ignorant at trying to locate the source of it. 

 

People fear in many different ways, of many different things, but they all have an identical or similar origin. A sentiment of worry that then grows irrationally within one’s being like a vine, tangling every other thought and infecting every cell until it has emptied the brain out of any hope to go back. But is it enough? Worry? Could it ever suffice at explaining that tugging inside your chest while you’re afraid? To fear, is to admit something being superior enough to have the power of making you weak; therefore acknowledging it as a threat. 

 

Could the reason be that we are unable to do anything about whatever is menacing us? Could it be that we put so much of ourselves to hope things will somehow look up just for those wishes to be crushed mercilessly in front of our own eyes? Falling at our feet? Is not hope, instead of despair, which makes us agonize? That makes us utterly miserable? Dealing with inevitable destination is easy; knowing that you won’t make it out alive is somewhat bearable. But believing that you have a chance, a choice in the matter, makes failure more intense. It makes your mind tear at the seams and drive itself to pieces. 

 

Isn’t being handed something just for it to be taken away worse than never having it at all? Misery, a necessary evil in life, is painfully straightforward. Happiness is viciously dangerous. Can a heart die even when it was not beating in the first place? Are they not made to be broken by love?  Shouldn’t we instead fear bliss that makes us vulnerable? Weak? Is not this which makes us prone to thrive? Is not the fear of life what keeps you and me so alive?

 

* * *

 

 

After the fall, Sherlock had departed from life -as he knew it- and set off to unravel Moriarty’s net. The task was not dull, nor was it as easy as the sleuth had anticipated. It was a greatly elaborated web. Tangled up confusing, and twirling from time to time. It had no loose ends, except for the fact that its creator was dead -or so Sherlock thought. It took months to finally get what he wanted, and at long last his friends were truly safe -or as safe as they could be living around Sherlock- but those days away from Baker Street were dark ones for the boffin. Never had he known times so miserable before, not even at what Mycroft liked to call “Sherlock Pre-detox”. 

 

The detective, more often than he would care to admit, thought about the night of the lady with the loaf of bread. Cursing himself under his breath for giving it such a name, it sounded as ridiculous as a title choice that John would have decided to thrust upon the event if he were to put it on his blog. Not that he had even told him about it, he had decidedly kept almost every occurrence between those years away from his friend’s curious mind, choosing instead to carry the whole weight over his own shoulders. He refused to deliberately burden him with this too. 

 

Of course, John will often inquire him, asking for at least a tiny detail to ease his own preoccupation, but Sherlock never answered what he wanted to know; he would tell basic information, smoothing away the jagged edges before brushing the matter off entirely. After a few months the blogger began to understand that whatever had happened when he was not around to have Sherlock’s back, he wanted to keep it to himself, so he dropped it. The detective would speak when he was ready, and next to everything else that took place he was honestly just relieved to have him back. Although Sherlock could see the worry in his eyes on the occasion he would leave exposed the previously covered healing scar whenever he ran his hands through his own hair. 

 

That night he was sitting in a dark alley, his back against the wall. He had managed to get away from his adversary just in time. His supposedly well thought out plan had failed miserably, and now he was left to hide in this foul-smelling passage for probably the rest of the night, having nowhere to sleep. 

 

As he was waiting, he rested his head on the dump beside him, he had already gotten used to sleeping next to rubbish in the past few months, but it was all worth it; a woman ran into the alley, clearly running away from someone too, most likely the man from which she had stolen the loaf of bread she currently carried under her right arm. He kept gazing at the food, it had been more than four days since he had something to eat, and he was famished. He shoved the thought of hunger away and focussed on the lady. 

 

He could see her life story upon seeing her, but he decided to refrain the urge of saying anything. The woman, in return tugged up a bit the corners of her lips in the form of a kind smile and sat in silence. Sherlock appreciated the tranquility more than he had the past days, he was covered in blood, although it was not his own. His insides were threatening to return anything that could be left in his empty stomach. 

 

He had to kill another one of James’ helpers. For a man who had never killed anyone before, he had done quite a lot of exactly that in recent times. Of course, they were never very nice men, but in the end who was he to decide that? He had taken another life in his own hands, albeit that this meant a lot of other people -actually nice people- would be safe, it still felt wrong, and his already fickle morals seemed tainted. 

 

Sherlock realized that no matter how he always thrived at the prospect of being superior to almost anything around him, at the end of the day he was no better than any of the criminals he once chased, just the fact that he hadn’t chosen that profession proved nothing. He dared a look at the other person in the dumpster, as she was still deadly quiet, but quite aware of him. He needed to express his thoughts to someone, something, otherwise his mind will probably crash and burn from despair. He was still mulling over the possibility of just calling Molly and caution be damned, when the woman across him looked at him intently. He had no skull, and John didn’t even know he was still alive; she would never be as good as either of them -specially the latter- but the detective decided that for now, her inviting old face would have to do. 

 

“I just feel like he’s never going to stop haunting me.” He said quickly, and instantly regretted having muttered a single word. But the lady didn’t lecture him, didn’t ask anything. She just cut off a piece of bread and brought it close to the detective. He was caught off guard by the gesture, but after seconds had worn away the shock, he accepted the offered nourishment thankfully. 

 

After that, they stayed in the alley under the pouring rain in complete silence till dawn. She slept curled up in a ball a meter away from him, and he did what he does best: Think. By the time the sun was up, and the rain had calmed down, the detective got on his feet and walked away before she was up; but not before taking out a few pounds from his coat pocket and thrusting them inside her purse. That night proved a new low in the life of the detective, but it also marked a rising of his spirit. He was tired of living that way, he wanted to go home, and he would do whatever it took to get there as soon as possible.

 

When he finally was able to return he had to give a chance to everyone to adjust. Of course after many harsh words and a punch in the face, they were all glad and relived he was alive. They took time to get used to seeing their supposedly dead friend walk around town, and he had to acclimate to the fact that he had a home again. 

 

Sometimes they would startle upon seeing him, and took a minute to remember that this was their life once more, and hence he would stall at the door as if he had forgotten he didn’t need permission to enter his own kitchen; it was idiotic, but Sherlock considered that tiptoeing around their world would make way for them to get gradually accustomed to having him with them again instead of waltzing back full-force, he assumed it was the least he could do. But sooner than he had thought they were falling into routine again, Lestrade -after getting his job back- was calling him with a case; and Mrs. Hudson gave himself and John a kiss before they were off to chase a criminal. And just like that life was good again.

 

Then the _visions_ started.

 

That teaches you to never turn your back on your enemy, not even after he was supposedly ripped away by death’s greedy claws.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was surprised, to say the least. A limb body of a young man collapsed until it made contact with the hard concrete. He was able to get an earful of desperate wails filling the room’s air. The echo in the walls making the sickening occurrence seem somehow surreal but at the same time more genuine in existence than his very breathing -even though that had also ceased to work a few times in recent days- and his spirit was damped with liquid regret. He should have stopped this. He should have ruthlessly pushed his stout mind to try harder. 

 

If John would have been there, Sherlock was sure he would not be as certain as he so fervently tends to be of him. The detective had always been lacking in all practice in social tendencies, and he had no care of such thing as manners, but his talent and intellect would always make up for it. He had a one track mind, and a one track heart -the latter recently found- but he had failed at the one thing in the world he knew exactly how to do. This fact dawned on him as he so seldom glanced around the room for some sort of confirmation that this was all some twisted lie, a charade so delicately carried out that it fooled even himself. He would intently follow any evidence, if there was only a single sign to prove the deceit. 

 

He reluctantly let his gaze travel the lifeless being at the center of the gathering. The self-disgust written across the older man’s face as he saw his eldest son sprawled murdered on the floor, seemed to darken something up inside the sleuth; The other son had to be dragged out, covered in his brother’s crimson gore. The look he bore was one of hatred for his father, who probably thought he was doing the right thing at saving at least him; fact with which obviously the youngest son didn’t agree. He most likely thought that it was better to face his own end alongside his brother, than to see the life being slit away from him by their progenitor. He had lost both, his dear brother and the man he once thought his father was.

 

“I believe you have chosen wisely, you both are to be released immediately.” Moriarty spoke calmly, as two maids -more prisoners- cleaned away all the blood quickly. Sherlock let his mind think about how could they get the stain out so effectively for a second, the pool of the same substance after the event including a little boy was completely gone, almost like it never have been there in the first place; just like this one will soon follow to fool anyone who will happen to step a foot inside here in the future. This made him wonder how many of these sort of _spills_ had taken place in the very place where he was sat. The thought made him shift uncomfortably.

 

“Thank you for your collaboration, you are free to go home now.” Jim sing-songed the last words as if they were a nursery rhyme. He was smug, self-satisfied with the way things had turned up. He knew the man was not returning to a home, but a trial, where his own family would be his judge, his jury and his butcher. He was as dead as he could get: alive. Which came to make an impact on the boffin.

 

“You’re enjoying yourself.” He said, it was far from a question, it was meant to be an statement, Sherlock _knew_ he was just playing games, and he wanted Moriarty to know also, that he was aware of that.

 

“As always your observational skills are spot on, my dear. I’m having the time of my life.” He smirked as he dismissed the other people in the room, leaving him alone, with the detective at his mercy. 

 

“What will you do when your games cease to be amusing? When you become fatigued of your toys?” Real curiosity shone throughout of him as he asked the most dangerous man in Britain this question; he really couldn’t fathom the possible answer to it, there was no way that someday, when he became too old for criminal deeds, Moriarty would sat on a chair in the porch of a countryside chalet -considering he didn’t murder the man first- reading the papers. 

 

“I’ll get new toys,” The criminal stated, and began detaching himself off the conversation, the sharp gaze of the detective could see he was in a sort of absorption. “Of course, if everything else shall fail, I’ll always have you.” And he smiled the most terrifying grin one could only see coming from an abyss ripping open a hole in the ground, staring back at you. 

 

“I’d rather die for real this time, than spend my life entertaining you.” Sherlock suddenly spat venomously, turning the whole conversation around, losing the game was affecting him more than he knew it could.

 

“Have you ever heard what is the purpose of a puppeteer?” James inquired. “It’s giving life to the puppet -or more like an illusion of life- but without its master to manipulate its every move, the puppet is already dead.” Sherlock parted his lips to speak but he did not utter a word, he couldn’t retaliate to such a true reality, fortune must have been laughing at his expense. “Sherlock, I hold all your strings. You already _live_ to entertain me.” The criminal graced the seemingly cold doubt behind his eyes staying for a minute or two in silence to cherish the sight of a slightly cracked Sherlock Holmes in front of him. Then he turned around and made for the door.

 

“I did solve it, you know?” Sherlock spoke suddenly, and Moriarty spun around slightly confused. “The riddle. I did solve it.” The sleuth explained, not even knowing why he was eagerly attempting to prove himself. 

 

“Oh you did, didn’t you? Isn’t it worse?” Mockery was not appreciated. He decided not to answer to the criminal. Leaving the question hang unresolved in the air above their heads instead. Was it worse knowing that he could’ve stopped it but was awfully late and that this possibility still hadn’t changed the outcome? 

 

The answer was _Yes_. Yes, it was.

 

* * *

 

 

The night dragged on for more than Sherlock knew it could, and he was left alone with his thoughts, fact that right then, wasn’t the very best idea. How had he missed it before? How is it that he failed at detecting the nearly moronic pattern that tied everything up, with a big, giant, painfully obvious red bow. He was unsuccessful at noticing it, but once he did he couldn’t fathom the way he gazed _over_ it. “Dead of the first born. Of course! The ten plagues of Egypt, stupid.” Rapidly had thought the detective, but albeit he knew the answer, he had come to -more accurately stumbled upon- it too late. And in two days come, a young man will be lowered six feet under the ground because of this. Sherlock was not in a good place.

 

The empty room was darkened at Moriarty’s departure. Sherlock could deduce that them flicking off the sole lightbulb in the place was a somewhat indirect order for him to sleep. Action which the sleuth knew he won’t be doing tonight. He would think, and even if the answer will never come, in vain he would still think. For thinking was all he could do at the time. 

 

He positioned himself against the wall and drew his legs closer to his body. One of his bloodied hands came to scratch the pricking itch on his left forearm. It had been almost five years since he decidedly left his past obsessive deeds and stayed clean. But he could sometimes feel a nagging inside of him, just like a bell tolling him back from his renewed being to his old self. ‘Tis true that our past can never be fully erased, and the person we once were will live within us, there in every move, and every breath, not ready to leave us quite yet. 

 

He sometimes found himself staring at an opened little box, sheathed with black silk; but more importantly at the spotless syringe inside it, unused for almost half a decade and the close to five years old half stash abandoned to its doom. He would question without answer why using again would actually be such a bad thing, but not once he would concede to this idea; he remembered and despaired for hours on end, until keys shuffled on the front door and leaden feet stumbled upstairs, a voice would call his name inspecting and he would reply with a “ _coming_.”. He would then, resume closing the box and return it to its place underneath a loose floorboard below the carpet next to his bed -he still couldn’t believe how John missed it every time he “secretly” searched for it when he believed it was a danger night- choosing to leave the other man in the dark about how he spent his morning and exiting the room to a kettle boiling and crap telly sounding in the background, to his real life. And as that the answer was reminded to him: because he could have this as long as he was away from that. 

 

Still, his body sometimes forgot. And demanded the seven percent solution desperately. It craved the harmful substance, and it wouldn’t go away. He had no way of giving to his body what it wanted, nor would that ever be an option even if he had a way. So Sherlock tried and scratched away the issue to ease his mind a bit, and instead concentrated in the problem at hand.

 

Anxiety running through his veins, he shuffled until getting comfortable enough and listened. He had been paying attention to patterns above his head, and had been able to pick up trajectories and entrances. If he listened for a few more hours maybe his plan could switch into _action mode_. 

 

It was surprising how, no matter what ungodly hour of the night it was, there was always some sort of activity or fuss inhabiting within the walls of Moriarty’s super secret hide-out. Sometimes it was simple quiet little pads that sounded too much like rain, and other times there was some running and screaming, but the beautiful patterns were always the same, and within the next six hours Sherlock would have drawn a perfectly accurate map of the construction.

 

* * *

 

 

Two whole days passed, and Sherlock remained undisturbed, they would just open the entrance, bring food and water, and leave again; but the light continued being off, so he sat in utter darkness. The night turned its head and prepared to leave the detective to sunshine and a brand new day, not minding the fact that he was in no way experiencing the rising of the sun -although he planned on being there to watch it go down this time. A mental blue print of the place had been assembled and the fastest and safest route to exit from it was determined. The next time they arrive with his nourishment he would flee this hell, and if his calculations were right -as usual- that was scheduled to happen in the next thirteen minutes. 

 

It was a shame he would leave so abruptly that his jacket and coat had to be left behind. But considering the circumstances, those were the only things he could afford to forsake in those realms. He intended departing with both, his dignity and his piece of mind, intact. After all -no irrationally sentimental attachment considered- it was just clothes, and his bruises were already healing, leaving no trace of his injuries. His body was just transport, an appendix to what was important, it was weak and prone to damage, but his mind was something they would never break. 

 

The minutes dragged on, and his stomach swirled in anticipation. He was really anxious to finally leave Moriarty frustrated, and pouting at the sight of the detective running away and slipping out of his grasp. Free and tipping the balance fair once more. He could fight the criminal on common ground, but refused to be held captive and at disadvantage.

 

Finally the hour arrived and he slowly stood up and paced to the door. Moriarty’s helper thrusted himself inside the room without noticing the detective and placed the lousy food on the floor. His vacant brain took a second to figure out where Sherlock must be if he wasn’t at his usual sitting place -just below the surveillance where the angle of the camera couldn’t reach him- and turned around to search for him. Little did he know that the madman was already out of the room, bolting across the narrow hallways and taking down everything and everyone he encountered in his course. 

 

He climbed up the stairs three at a time and ducked when a man tried to seize him. “Not a chance.” He thought and passed by several guarded rooms. He quickly inferred that’s where they kept all the other hostages. It wasn’t very impressive, the number of accommodations; even more when he knew the criminal had prisoners to spare -quite literally-. 

 

He had to keep track of where his minions were coming from, and how close they were at his feet. They were clearly more athletic than he ever was and were already gaining on him, although not alarmingly so.  But if his legs would choose to fail now they would be hurling him back into the cell-like room in three seconds. Thankfully they worked just fine, and Sherlock knew the back entrance was not that far away from him anymore, just a few paces, punches and a dodge and he would be out of there for good.

 

He passed a sitting room and had a chance to see James sipping at his tea before instantly becoming aware of the situation. He grinned at him as if Sherlock running away was part of his scheme all along, and the detective wondered as he ran if he had just walked right into a trap the manipulative man had laid in front of him. The sleuth halted a bit his fleeing and quickly grabbed a decorative candle from an end table, the flame flickered incessantly. He figured the smoke alarm would at least disarm every lock in the mansion, giving the remaining hostages enough time to flee too. If they could walk away from the trap there was nothing now stopping Sherlock from dropping the flaming candle to the carpeted floor and burning the place down. With a deep breathe he did as he intended and the rug caught on fire actively.

 

He then resumed to his racing, his resolve stronger than ever. He was at last approaching the last hallway to the back exit. Just ten more strides and it was goodbye Moriarty and his brilliant, yet filthy lies. The heat was already wrapping the place up, and with it, giving Sherlock hope. Burning down the last bit of the place was not what he had planned on doing at first, but since the opportunity had presented itself, he was not going to disregard it. He, and the other hostages were leaving; If hell was what Moriarty desired, he could burn and rot in it for all he cared.

 

Sherlock imagined what it would look like on the outside. Moriarty’s quarters with tongues of fire, flaming like a beacon of victory. He almost rejoiced at the thought that if Jim got trapped in there, he would at last leave the detective alone, let go of the hold he had. Stop haunting his every step.

 

With a few more paces he grabbed the doorknob and twisted it to open the last barrier between him and freedom. He rapidly stepped through it and what he found caught him completely off guard. It was not wilderness, nor was it outside as he had predicted. Instead it was another windowless room, very much like the one from where he had just departed, and he could hear his beliefs shatter down like a hundred pieces of glass. He turned around confused and in a daze. Had he just locked the prisoners and himself in a burning building without exit? Had he just doomed everyone inside it?

 

Sherlock started to run in the opposite direction, he had to find an escape from that soon to become inferno. The surprise of having his only hope of getting out crashed and stomped upon had left him quite shaken, and he didn’t see nor hear the big bloke who approached him from behind and hauled the entirety of his being on his shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?” His scottish accent was thick and his arms would not give out. No matter how many punches and kicks the boffin gave he was still being carried back to the room where he had spent the last ten days.

 

Why wasn’t this idiot running away from his imminent death? In fact, now that he gazed around, why wasn’t anyone springing outside to save themselves from getting incinerated alive? He was shoved inside the chamber once more, and the freezing handcuffs were placed around his still cold wrists. “You’re doomed, mate.” He warned and Sherlock aloofly scoffed as if he didn’t believe the king would harm him for trying to burn down his castle. Of course, within his indifferent exterior, his mind was convulsing. He mulled over the possibility of Jim going as far as letting his own lair blaze, just to leave the sleuth imprisoned inside it. If that was the case, then the detective had finally met his end at his own stupidity. “How ironic!” He mused. He had always been petulantly proud of his intelligence, and now _Idiocy_ shall be what they write down as “Cause of death”. He couldn’t believe he had survived a near doom jumping off a five story building, yet he had set on fire a place from which he couldn’t get out -not to mention the fact that he was probably the only miserable man who was going to die because of this-. Stupid.

 

Commotion stirred upstairs, clearly for the fact that there was a bloody fire in the sitting room. There was running and yelling but the detective couldn’t make out whether if they were trying to leave, or to put out the flames. It went on for quite a while, a few hours actually, and then it slowed down to almost normal activity-like sounds. The heat decreased dramatically too, so that meant they had managed to put it out and were sorting every other deed out. 

 

Now, certain that he wasn’t about to be burned alive, Sherlock began to worry about what Moriarty might do to retaliate. Surely he wouldn’t let such an act go unpunished, and the detective was already disturbed by the fact that he had really believed his escape plan would work, he had already thought about how it would be to be back at Baker Street, and leave this place that he had already come to hate not too long after he was placed inside it. He really had seen the light at the end of the tunnel, and had foolishly followed it believing it would lead him out, only to find out that the light didn’t mean an exit but a train coming towards him, ready to crash his every bone. The rug under his feet had been pulled away and now the detective was left sprawled facing the floor after falling face-first unto it. 

 

* * *

 

 

He was tired. Exhausted and fatigued. Sleep depravation was not what send him into an spiral of enervation, but fighting something which he couldn’t control drained the thought and the will out of him. It had all been another trap, another way for Moriarty to tease him. A statement to make Sherlock squirm beneath his thumb, and the detective was soon finding himself with less cards to play. He knew he was coming for him, and if the criminal changed the rules once again, there was not telling if the sleuth would endure it this time.

 

When James finally entered the room, his demeanor was different from all the other times he had done so. The detective’s confused mind saw him through some sort of imaginary swirling stained glass. With sick and nauseating bright colors which just seemed to mock him instead of brightening his spirit. Moriarty was surely the most hollow and empty man he had ever encountered; a black hole surrounded by a human carcass to give him structure, but nothing more than desolated darkness. The merry shades becoming a camouflage for the world to ignore its true nature, but now that Sherlock had seen it, it was infuriatingly cynic of him to present himself as an elated carnival. Deceiving bastard.

 

Just as any other black hole, he was not going to let anything -specially Sherlock- escape. The attempt the boffin had carried out was not at all effective, it had just effectively rattled his cage. Jim looked a bit stressed, but never less sharp, and as he made his way towards the handcuffed sleuth, his Westwood suit dissolved in one with the darkness. The detective could see behind his movements that he was trying a bit too hard not to let him know that he was actually quite angry, and instead decided to put on an amused grin. Sherlock felt a tiny satisfaction at this, feeling his attitude of “ _If I cannot get out, then I might as well piss the hell out of him”_ rise. 

 

“What to do with you?” He said, taking the taser out of his trouser pocket. “First you attempt to flee, then you knock down all my friends,” Sherlock scoffed at this statement, and Moriarty quickly comprehending what his mockery was about, smiled too. “They are complete idiots, I get it- but still;” He started pacing as if he was impatient, the detective realized the brown-eyed man was excited for what he knew was coming, which couldn’t, by any means, indicate something good for himself. “And finally, you attempted to destroy my palace.” 

 

Sherlock thought about what his options were. Unfortunately the list was growing thin, he couldn’t run since he didn’t know where to go or where the door was supposed to be -he would only walk into another trick- and even though he and the criminal were alone, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t be sliced into tiny bits if he made a sign of attacking James. So, clever talk it was.

 

“Well, you are aware of how it is with fire, it just makes you desire to _burn_ things.” The retort came calmer than he expected, but the venom in its nature was highly present. Oh, how he hated this man, and all his ambition to destroy and shatter everything that the sleuth knew. How come if Sherlock had evaporated all his dynasty, Moriarty was still above all sense of eradication? Getting rid of his henchmen didn’t even rise a stir in the criminal’s world, however Sherlock was vulnerable and prone to lose something, anything. Maybe that was the cause, Moriarty had nothing he cared about, nothing to protect, and therefore nothing to lose, but the detective was just exposed and almost keen on giving his adversaries things to break him. _Alone is what I have, alone protects me._

 

“Very well. Boys,” Moriarty called to his assistants on the outside of the chamber. “Bring the board.” The curly-haired man was dumbstruck, they were supposed to talk and power play for hours, yet Jim seemed to jump right into action. Plus, a board? Was that a joke? Was he now expected to be challenged into a game of checkers to the death? It all sounded just ridiculous.

 

However, the presumed board never appeared. Instead, when the device did come into view, Sherlock instantly understood how it was not at all _ridiculous_. The door opened and there came four men hauling a massive table-like piece of wood with wheels and straps on its corners. Upon gazing at it for more than two seconds, the detective could recognize an ill faith which he had only seen in Modern Torture books. 

 

It was serious, seriously dangerous; shock got the best of him and resulted in him twisting around, desperately trying to get the handcuffs off so he could escape the imminent suffering. A sharp electric pinch came to rest on his forearm to get him to stop moving, and albeit it hurt like hell, he would not lay down his resolve. Another shock was gained, and with it, a snide remark from the criminal. “You didn’t think I was going to let this slide, did you dear?” Said Moriarty using a combination of one of his many voices and pitches, as other five men entered and tried to un-cuff Sherlock without gaining a punch in the jaw in return.

 

Of course the boffin was not an easy target, and shook and fought while they were carrying him to the table, but the men were far much stronger than he was, and he was highly outnumbered. His four limbs were strapped to the corners of the wooden surface and they -with a lot of effort- were finally able to place a band around his waist to prevent him from moving about too much. Sherlock absolutely didn’t like what was coming, for he knew it would only be suffering in its greatest fashion; and although he was sure Moriarty was not trying to kill him, there were so many ways this could go terribly wrong.

 

The damp cloth was placed upon his mouth, and despite all of his attempts to shake it off, he was never successful at getting the thing off his face. Two of the nine minions James had with them inside began to tilt the board until his feet were seventeen degrees higher off the ground than his head. The punishment had not even began and his lungs were already having trouble keeping the air inside; he had to calm down, hyperventilating would only worsen his situation.

 

All the other tortures he had seen the criminal impose were terrible, but the sleuth could clearly see how he had emulated those more vile and despicable forms of inflicting pain for him with this one. He wanted nothing more than to skip the experience, but begging would be futile. Not to mention he would never stoop so low as to beg Moriarty for something. If this was going to be his end, so be it. 

 

Sherlock could see more men approaching, carrying what could only be buckets full of water being brought close to him. Five to be exact. The data coming to him faster than the speed of light, all at once. The torturer, the cheater, the burglar, the mindless follower, the bloke with power issues, the one scheming against his master -idiot-, the betrayer, the murderer, the one who forgets to pay the bills, the family man, the lonely man, the gay one, the one in love with a co-worker, the two jobs one. _The madman_. All of them were different types, even of different nations. And if you didn’t already know which one was who, you would never figure out the one, out of the fifteen of them, that was bat-shit crazy.

 

But Sherlock knew, and it was fascinatingly unexpected, that the shorter and almost bubbly one chose to be the maniac. His intelligence made him be the only one of the lot who could be a criminal master mind, despite how innocent his appearance may seem. Still, all of this knowledge wasn’t going to help him with his despair, nor was it going to give him a way out of this, so he laid there -he didn’t exactly had a choice- and awaited his fate.

 

Water. Tiny beads started being dropped at his face. At first they were tedious, annoying even. Just a joke he wanted to end. But as time worn away, he began feeling impatient, if he couldn’t flee the future, he wanted to just be done with it. The droplets increased in size gradually, and the tip of his nose no longer felt as cold as it had the first time. 

 

The first bucket was empty, but they still had another four. And the water kept coming in greater dimensions, he could begin to feel the effects of the sanction. The stream was damping his whole face, and his mouth -covered with a rag- was the way he was getting the air he needed to subsist. He trashed and shifted, just trying to stop all of it from happening, his attempts were unsuccessful, of course, and he could hear in the faint distance James’ laugh. He chuckled with such a mirth that the detective thought could only compare to one of a hyena; who mocks in the most morbid way  at the dying thing it’s about to eat. He could positively say he felt like the carrion.

 

It had been thirteen minutes and by then, he was finding it challenging to breathe. His nose and eyes, and mouth were being filled with liquid, and although he was aware of the fact it could not creep upwards to his lungs -thank you, gravity- he had the sensation of drowning. 

 

He continued to remind himself that asphyxiation wasn’t possible, or at least probable, but it didn’t ease the fact that he was losing his mind over the sense of life leaving him. “It’s just a trick, bear another three buckets and it’ll all be over.” He thought to himself, but it was obviously easier said than done; he knew that prisoners tortured with this particular technique only lasted an average of fourteen seconds  of full-on _waterboarding_ before caving in and he was in minute sixteen, but then again, he had yet to experience the most intense form of this torture.

 

When Mummy took them to the beach when they were younger, he wasn’t happy at the least. It had seemed like a great idea at first, to take a seven year old and a teen to a weekend near the ocean, but of course those children being Sherlock and Mycroft, things didn’t go as planned. The younger of the brothers had yet to swim -albeit he had lessons to learn how- and even though he loved the unruly, almost destructive nature of the sea, getting _in_ it didn’t look like a smart move on his part inside of his still-growing mind. But once his brother made him wear the ridiculous floaters, he decided it was better to do a brave, but stupid move rather than stand there looking like an idiot. So, he walked over to the line of sand in which the tides came crashing and just threw himself in the water.

 

Long story short, Mycroft got him out as soon as he realized his baby brother was near from drowning, for his little arms weren’t able to keep up with the quickening of the waves. Sherlock was frightened, and vowed he would never again attempt to get into it, saying it was too _boring_ to even consider. This exercise felt even worse than that time, simulated drowning was worse than being in the ocean where you at least had a chance to wave your limbs and try to stay on the surface. Not to mention this time not Mycroft, nor anyone was there to help him. He was alone.

 

“Look at you,” the criminal came closer and watched him from above “You had to try to burn my beautiful mansion.” Water was coming more aggressively and it was nearly impossible to keep the air in. “Are you that desperate to get away? Haven’t I made you feel at home?” He said softly, and chuckled when the detective tried to spit out the water but was incapacitated by the damp cloth over it. He was sinking from the inside, loading his head with liquid despair. “Oh, how I love this! one of the best inventions of the twentieth century if you ask me.” 

 

The curly haired man was at last losing the battle, the water level was too high, and his body too trapped to keep it out. He now understood what Grover Flint meant: a man who was drowning but cannot drown, indeed.

 

The air was almost inexistent, and oxygen was needed. His head was spinning and if he couldn’t manage to get out of it in the next two minutes, he would loose consciousness and die. Desperately he tried to get up, and all the other men -aside from the one pouring the water- were watching amused. He glared at the criminal, and put into his silver stare all the hate he was feeling. _You won’t break me, I won’t let you,_ it seemed to say, and Moriarty just stared back with feign sympathy. What the detective saw in his brown eyes was pity, and if there was any sentiment which he could have hated more, he couldn’t conjure it. 

 

His chest was bouncing up and down, and his head rocking to get rid of the liquid. Shaking hands, blue feet from the lack of circulation and a traumatized mind are never a good combination, and he realized he would do almost anything to make it stop. Anything.

 

* * *

 

 

Finally, the five pots were out of water and he was pushed to the floor -after getting him out of the straps- wet and miserable. Once Sherlock felt that the liquid ceased coming he coughed and impatiently let inside all the air he could, making up for the fact that he had been deprived from it for too long. He must have looked beyond terrible; damped from head to toe, -there wasn’t any blood in his hands anymore though- and almost doubling with mixed pain and mental turmoil. The detective could note how the consulting criminal enjoyed the show, and chastised himself for displaying such an amount of vulnerability in front of him. 

 

“You loose.” Smirking, the criminal lead his minions out the door, and closed it behind him. And Sherlock for once, agreed with him. He didn’t died, but he almost _caved_. He was this close to pleading, he considered doing it, and if it weren’t for the fact that he couldn’t talk even if he tried, he would have done it. It was then that he realized that if it wasn’t for just a little difficulty James would have been the first person in the world to hear Sherlock Holmes truly beg. Not actually doing it was just a tiny detail, for Jim had seen in the way he acted that he would have, and that’s all he needed. The detective had brought on himself the instrument of damnation. He just deliberated gave Moriarty exactly what he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all liked it.


	5. Chapter 4: The Probation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pro•ba•tion: |prōˈbāSHən| noun.
> 
> The release of an offender from detention, subject to a period of good behavior under supervision.

 

 

CHAPTER 4: THE PROBATION.

 

 

 

 

 

_Never give your enemy something to hold over your head_. Sherlock was beginning to find a whole new level of meaning in that statement. After all, being alone in an empty room with nothing but his own thoughts, left him with scarce to do other than grandly obsess over the failure he so foolishly portrayed hours before. Now, he could only imagine what the criminal must be arranging to mock his weaknesses completely. 

 

The sight which he felt was embed in Jim’s memory, was that of a cracked detective gasping for air, and desperately trying to clutch the humanity he denied having, never letting go. And he couldn’t bear the thought of behaving that pathetically or foolishly; not in front of the consulting criminal, who wanted nothing more than making the high-functioning sociopath squirm and writhe just trying to squeeze the fear out of his admittedly massive mind. He exposed a bit of susceptibility, yes; but that was a mistake he won’t be making ever again.

 

No matter how much effort he put in deleting the sensation that having life being ripped out of him without actually dying, left on his body. He hated that he remembered. He, however, ironically couldn’t seem to summon into his mind the reason nor the origin of the bizarre flashback he had. It played in his head like a broken record that wasn’t able to jump the track. He had managed since, to recall a bit more from the conversation, and although it was not a lot, it certainly helped to place the pieces into place a bit more easily. The sentence that was already etched upon the boffin’s mind started off as a question: _“Are you sure this is all there is about this situation? Saving lives?”_. It served as a prelude to the statement which had Sherlock’s Mind Palace being turned upside down to find its meaning. 

 

Albeit, this realization didn’t, by any means, imply that he understood it, or that he could reminisce who had spoken it. He just felt it wasn’t as arbitrary as it had felt at first, this had significance beyond his own comprehension. He wondered if it could be, by any chance, related to the dream he kept having when he actually slept. But there just wasn’t enough data to draw a concrete conclusion, so he would keep on reliving it until it made sense.

 

As two empty days passed, something started growing in the very distant horizon. Something inside the detective’s brain. A doubt so subtle, yet so present. The new born shadow spoke to him, in something like a distorted voice. Twelve days were a lot, quite more than it should take Mycroft, or even the idiots at Scotland Yard to find him. Then why weren’t they coming? 

 

He shook the thought away from his dimension for now. There was no reason to despair yet, just worrisome for the tiny little minds who seemed to have his future in their hands. Surely they’d have to figure it out at some point. If he started losing conviction the whole house of cards would stumble and fall. Moriarty planned on living inside his head rent-free, and Sherlock should do anything in his power to see that it never happened. 

 

Those couple of days were extensibly quiet. No minions entered to leave food for him, nor they came and forced what was supposed to be water -although Sherlock still wasn’t quite sure if he believed that- down his throat. Moriarty’s rituals had changed, he was no longer being treated as what would pass as a “Guest of honor” in the consulting criminal’s domains. He was left neglected and forsaken in that quadrangular hell of never-ending boredom. With nothing to do, nothing to eat, and no sign of his host. 

 

He didn’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved at the fact of being thrown aside and ignored by said maniac; without doubt, in any other situation he should be grateful for the fact that Moriarty found someone else to torture for a change, other than himself. But stagnation was not something which he handled well, and his racing-engine-like psyche was already longing for a distraction, something, anything to deduce. 

 

It was sick, really; to yearn for the attention of something that was only looking to destroy him, but something inside his gut yelled at him that Moriarty was better when close than where he couldn’t see him; uncertainty was worse than any punishment in itself. If Jim was arranging a doom for him, the detective thought he ought to be present. 

 

At least when the criminal was there, he could retaliate. Of course, it never went further than snide remarks, but it gave the detective the long-forgotten illusion of something akin to control. In that position he could do something about it, but the most dangerous man had forgotten about him, and left him there to rot. It was sick, and he knew it.

 

* * *

 

A day more of the combat inside himself, and the door was flung open, a tray of food was thrown inside bearing in its top a white envelope. Once the detective saw it, he nearly ran to the item and tore the covering apart like a child at Christmas morning. He could deduce something from this, he could think about something other than those subjects that poked and mocked him, which he decided to ignore. He casted the rest of the tray away and began reading impatiently. Food could wait, he was in more need of his real nourishment.

 

The paper startled him more than anything. He would have imagined lots of things, from the most straightforward and business-like threatening, to the most raw and manic descriptions of violence. Even a romantic love letter seemed high likely compared to what it really was. When the boffin’s zirconium eyes skimmed throughout the sheet he was rather surprised of what he found, or rather what he did not find. 

 

The paper was clear as sunlight, not a single word written in it. No pictures, no marks, no signs of an invisible ink of any sort. The paper was _empty_. Moriarty clearly had been very careful not to leave any trace behind, no data, nothing. He was enraged, wrath seething through his pores. He kicked the food tray, all its contents were sent flying through the room and crushed the paper between his violinist fingers. He had expected Moriarty to ridicule him, but this was too much; now he was taunting his incapability to survive without a puzzle, a distraction. 

 

Even when he was in Baker Street, where he had cold cases, and technology, and experiments, and John, all laying around somewhere in the flat waiting to entertain him, it wasn’t enough to get rid of the nagging problem his personality had always had. Jim was pushing, and too much for that matter, up to a point where it was more of a shoving, a violent thrust to an abyss where Sherlock had no control whatsoever. He felt like falling all over again.

 

Oh! What he would give to have his Stradivarius with him. To relax him and help him think. Every movement of his fingers a delicious disease; every swing of the bow a subtle cure. Just the right combination of reckless and control. And as the hair touched the strings feel like a part of him coming undone and being built up again, leaving him wide-eyed and staring at a new world previously unknown to him. Threatening to make him go insane, and madly in love with the wrong darkness. 

 

So familiar, yet so astonishingly new; every time it was a different sensation. Sometimes he was drowning in a hurricane, other times his body burned with the wind. Either way, breaking his bones and letting his spirit run free without moving from where he was standing. It was the one situation he never dared to let his brain analyze, partly because he knew his science-bound intellect would never accomplish at finding an explanation, and even if it did, it wouldn’t make it justice. And partly because of the shaking fear of the magic losing its gift once he knew how it worked. He refused to spoil the only sense of freedom, and he would not break it open just to see what it was. Confusing and an even sum, it was madness. It was utter perfection.

 

He was impatient, he needed action. Something to silence the white noise inside his head. To kill all the choirs within him who all sang in different keys. He required focus.Ever since he was released from rehab, one of his inside strings always silently feared being left alone, to let all his thoughts run wild. When he had a purpose, a mission; not his carcass, nor his soul needed anything else. 

 

He became accustomed, and immersed himself in _The Work_. His one-tracked intellect not being able to see past of what was important for the case, he was somewhat distracted. And then the whole _flatmates_ thing happened and he didn’t have to worry about loneliness anymore, there was always someone -John- there to keep him grounded. To keep his body from bursting, from tearing at the seams. To prevent his toxic thoughts from digging through his skull, to stop his pent up acid from harming its vessel.

 

But complicated as it may seem, it came natural sometimes. He absent-mindedly and gradually became more in control of his habits, up until they went off the rails only under duress or utter boredom. However, the situation in which he found himself right now warranted the losing of the hold he had on those reins. Normally, whenever that happened, all everyone could do was run fast, escape, and hide until the storm had passed. No use fighting against a hurricane which not even itself had the ability to control whatsoever. 

 

Well, it was not as if he was in any position to decide, though. His brain would do as it pleased, and he might as well just go on with it. Plus, the fact of being caged and held hostage -with no chance of ransom, mind you- at this dull-looking chamber, was not actually helping the situation. Not only was he being controlled by his own rebelled mind, but also the consulting criminal had him at his mercy -more accurately at his _lack_ of said.

 

He let his thoughts wander for a moment, pondering if James might leave him there undisturbed for the rest of eternity. If he had at long last tired of him and the game they played, and if he was ever going to have a chance of going back out there. Although he didn’t fear death in the slight-less, he had no desire of passing away just yet. There were still so many things to find out, so many things to do and crimes to solve. Still, dying was never the worst of fates, and fading to white or black could possibly be more compelling than living in gray, as he was right now.

 

He found himself wondering, and for the first time in years he thought about death, and although he had already experienced -or rather watched as others experienced- his own end, there was no telling what would happen if they were left with something even more lethal to the human brain and its emotions than loss: uncertainty.

 

What would Lestrade do if himself was not there to solve the cases for him? If he couldn’t work out what Moriarty had done with him? And with what might Mrs. Hudson occupy her afternoons if it wasn’t in cleaning after the mess he always managed to make? Would she instead waste them wondering if he was lying lifeless in some gutter? He though about Mycroft and Molly too, would they mourn if they never got a chance to find him? If he stayed lost forever? Would Mycroft blame himself for not being able to locate him? Would Molly return to not being able to stand up for herself? 

 

Albeit all of the loyalty he had received, and the affection he realized they had towards him after the fall, he didn’t know how they would manage with a second round of it all, should the situation present itself. Would practice make it easier, or would repetition just end them once and for all? As darker thoughts started mingling inside, he thought of an improbable but very possible option, would they forget about him? Would they find it too much to bear at not knowing whether he was alive, and just bury an empty casket once more? Would they give up and tire of chasing invisible footsteps? Would they stop believing in him?

 

It was then when he contemplated about John. And even though all of the formerlypresented doubts were if not but possible and honestly, quite terrifying with the others, he did know about his ever-loyal blogger. And that was probably -no, decidedly- worse. This time there wouldn’t be any beating around the bush, this time the doctor would not absentmindedly carry on with his life half-empty, holding on to the past for dear life. No, this time Sherlock was sure the doctor would attempt, if not succeed, at following him, not even knowing if there was actually somewhere _to_ follow. And the detective found out there was just so much damage and hurt that he could bring into a man who had saved his life in so many occasions. 

 

He must find a way -no matter how ironic it seemed- to just stay alive, even if it just meant _staying_. Because he wouldn’t be able to bear, for the short or long time that he was to spend there, the guilt if something were to happen to John or to any of them because of him, however indirect his part in it could be.

 

He pulled himself away from those ideas rather quickly. Deciding it would do himno good to dwell on things to come, which thankfully had the probability of never coming at all. Sherlock couldn’t afford to lose any of them -no matter how many times he denied it- and the five of them were to keep intact _whenever._ They were constants to Sherlocks fickle variables. He was the reckless unpredictable one. The one who had been to hell and back too many times to count, with no one, himself included, certain that he would make it back; and they were the ones always staying, always waiting. Always safe.

 

* * *

 

On day four of being completely ignored, if it wasn’t for the occasional mocking at his needs, he sat cross-legged resting in one of the corners. He had chosen that particular place to avoid being seen by the surveillance. The camera just above him had a blind point, and if he was expected to keep just a little bit of sanity in that mausoleum, he had to make sure he didn’t feel like a bloody animal in the zoo all the time. In times like this, where every thought counted, privacy was luxury.

 

He refused to let his uneasiness be an entertainment, if Moriarty wanted to flaunt his little victory and have a front row ticket in the sleuth’s misery, he would have to come and confront him properly. Thankfully, the detective was a very resilient specimen, and it would take very little to get him back up on his own feet again. The torture he endured was cruel, and warranted nothing more than for him to go and cry on a corner, but albeit he had lost a petty battle, he _would_ win the war, there was no doubt in his mind about it. No matter what he had to do, he would get out of there. He would come home again.

 

He recognized what the criminal was trying to do, and he couldn’t say it was anything less than brilliant. The perfection in planing, and cunning nature of thought was just a piece of art. So cleverly played out that he admitted it was similar to what he would’ve done if he was an insane homicidal psychopath; almost as if someone had extracted that particular idea from his brain and inserted it in that of the criminal. He again pondered the similarities of his and Jim’s method of thinking, and accepted that he would be James, if the situation would have been as such. Oddly enough the only thing separating them, differentiating them from one another was the most self-denied aspect of the detective’s personality: the often scoffed and abhorred _sentiment_. 

 

Every time he stupidly displayed any sort of emotion he was left wishing to just brush it off, scrub it out of his system. And tried he did, but it was not something he could command himself to stop doing. He would walk to that specific drawer of his mind palace, retrieve the awful folder which contained the idiotic and irrational behavior, and tossed it inside the trash bin. Sighed from relief thinking he’d successfully deleted it; but moments after he would find himself feeling those irritating reactions and encountered with the exact same file he believed to have disposed away. His mind half-rebelling had protected the folder with teeth and claws, and now the sleuth understood why. Because even if he positively hated feelings, and was galled whenever he experienced something akin to emotions, it was the only thing preventing him from becoming like the very man who had him trapped and was currently making sure he was going through hell. He decided he reluctantly would tolerate that ridiculous chemical defect if it meant he would never find himself at a situation with reversed roles. The only emotion Jim seemed capable of really having was a terrifying, yet flattering, committed fixation of playing Sherlock. And said detective hadn’t decided what it meant for him, to be the only object of attention of such an unpredictable and crazy man.

 

As if speaking of the devil, said criminal came striding inside the room at last, door being tightly closed behind him, leaving the room devoid of the partly fresh breeze which entered when opened, snatching the air as soon as it arrived, and with it Sherlock’s sole sensory satisfaction. The currently green eyes of the curly haired man set in the frightening dark ones of the consulting criminal. Smirking at the attention, Moriarty moved closer and sat in the floor next to him. Sherlock looked at him discombobulated, Jim drew his knees to his chest and rested his back casually in the wall. Noting he wasn’t about to be attacked the boffin relaxed and closed his eyes.

 

“You know, Sherlock;” He muttered looking straight ahead. Surprisingly calm. “You really messed up when you tried to bite the hand that feeds you.” He acted so different, so _normal_. So not like the maniac he always was. It left the sleuth with a sort of uneasy feeling at his gut. The man next of him had gotten so good at feigning human traits, that you almost would not believe he was a highly corrupted snake. It was as if he had sat down a row of people and practiced every expression until he had perfected it -and knowing the madman he may have just had- portraying ordinary aspects as a second nature, probably because the ghoul always needed a cover. Blending in with the common crowd, hiding in plain sight. 

 

The faux concern he gave him was disconcerting, and for a moment he wondered where had he gather that particular emotion. Did he steal it from someone else? Did he snatched it away from somebody’s face when they weren’t looking? And, where did he keep all the other emotions masks when he wasn’t using them in his fallacy? “You weren’t actually expecting me to sit back and do nothing, were you?” Responded the detective, still quite immersed in his own self. Placing his chin on his clasped fingertips, they way he always did at home with John. Except he was not at home, and the terrible man next to him wasn’t John, or anyone of whom he wanted to be in the company. Nonetheless, this was his luck. The only one available to listen to his ramblings was the very monster he is trying to overthrow.

 

“I suppose you’re right.” Said beast sighed. He seemed to have deflated completely, exasperated enough to ignore their usual positions. Characterizing the posture of an understanding bloke just comforting a friend. Sherlock, however, knew better than to swallow it whole.

 

“I’m always right.” He said nonchalantly, acting as his typical self. Aside from the fact that it was highly uncommon and quite alarming, Moriarty was being refreshingly harmless, aware of the fact that they both knew the detective could never attack him if he expected to get out of there alive. Knowing he was currently out of threat, the musician decided to push it. Curious as to where the conversation could turn. Maybe James would reveal something of importance, maybe it would lead somewhere fascinating.

 

“Good God, that arrogance of yours!” He exclaimed back. As if he had never met him before. As if he didn’t know that’s what he always did. “I wonder how that stupid pet of yours put up with it all these years.” If looks could kill, the glare the sleuth gave the criminal at the mention of that person would have chopped him into tiny bits and dunked the rest in sulphuric acid. It looked like the brown-eyed man had some investigation of his own going on. And for the intent present in that sentence, Sherlock felt a pang of possessiveness shot through him. Ready to defend his blogger from the incorrect accusation. He said nothing instead.

 

“Oh, hit a nerve there, didn’t I?” Smugness and satisfaction flying through the air among them. Sherlock refused to go down that road. Bored of the idiocy and uselessness of the subject, this wouldn’t give him anything more than he already knew. “Anyhow, that is not why I’m here.” He said as soon as he realized the detective wouldn’t speak a word about that. He could see him clam up at the very mention of his friend, clearly still a sore spot.

 

“Why indeed are you here, _James_?” The curly-haired man rolled the last word out of his tongue as if it was as sour, as it was disgusting. Urging the other man to just get it over with, so he could resume on worrying himself crazy. He had no intentions of wasting precious time with such trifles. 

 

“I’m here because I feel particularly merciful today and I decided to offer you a deal.” His business voice was back, and the detective felt his uneasiness somehow assuage at the familiarity of the tone. This was the Moriarty he knew and loathed, the unpredictably predictable criminal. He couldn’t recognize the friend-like Jim, and it unnerved him to no end.

 

“Whatever is it, I’m not interested.” He answered cooly and fastening up one of his opened buttons nonchalantly, he had no desires to sell his soul to this lesser devil. “So you may as well resume to your machinations of accessioning the world.” The detective couldn’t decide if the chill was caused by the foul weather, or by the demonic presence of the man sitting next to him. If he had to bet, his money would be on the latter.

 

“I’m sure they can manage it for a little while. You are my priority, Sherly.” The sociopath eyed the psychopath bewildered. He had never before dealt with someone quite as crazy as what was before him, and it was dreadful and yet interesting to watch it happen; an experience of a lifetime -and he did hope it happened just once in his lifetime. However, he wasn’t there to be fascinated; he wasn’t supposed to be entertained, he should be fighting. Finding the way to return home. “You are going to help me with something.”

 

“No.” He said stoically. Straightforward. He didn’t even feel the need to elaborate, he wasn’t about to aid the criminal in his machiavellian affairs. That is the line he has never crossed, he was a consulting detective, not a criminal. He, albeit reluctantly, was on the side of the angels, if he allowed himself to take part in this he may as well loose everything he ever stood for. 

 

“Oh, don’t worry; it’s nothing evil. And the reward is worth it.” He said.

 

“And what the consulting criminal could possibly fail at doing that requires my assistance?” Sherlock had no intentions of actually agreeing, but he was so _bored_ and the conversation was stimulating. Thirteen days locked up with nothing to deduce and no one to call stupid and he already could feel his brain rotting inside his skull. 

 

“Just a chemistry impasse, it will provide you a distraction and if you do it right I’ll reward you with something to calm your anxiety.” This got the sleuth attention. Why could he mean with _that_? Moriarty was seriously not planning on having his violin delivered, it would be moronic just to think about it. Nicotine patches, however, were more probable, and the nature of the situation in which he found himself would warrant at least four of them. This was tempting, all the more reason to not accept. If he were to agree, he most likely would end up paying expensive wages for the rest of his life, just for a handful of nicotine patches. Although in his state it was starting to seem like a fair trade.

 

“Not even a whole pack of patches will make me agree.” He decided. The only thing he really needed to smoke was the practical ghosts out of his mind. And getting his priorities straight. Self-preservation, then escape, and finally nicotine. In that order only.

 

“Oh, you’re always so boring!” The criminal whined and pouted like a little child. “Who said anything about patches?” He smirked and reached for his blazer inside pocket. This caught the boffin’s attention and he whirled his head to witness what the maniac was going to show him. What he did get out of his jacket, was exactly what the silver-gazed man never expected. 

 

So, at last the criminal’s true intentions were brought to surface. He couldn’t possibly be offering Sherlock a deal in which the detective would both, have a distraction _and_ a reward. 

 

“No.” He refused abruptly, as if he didn’t avert his brain from pondering quickly enough it would no doubt change his answer. “No,” He said again, trying to be as clear as possible. “I don’t need them anymore.” He mumbled to himself and by then he had already rolled the sleeves of his shirt down to his wrists. Withdrawing all the evidence that his body may differ with this statement. 

 

The psychopath stared at him, scrutinizing his reaction. Despite the fact that he, himself, tends to do exactly that more than he eats, -actual true fact- now that he was the one being observed, for once the detective thought such an act to be greatly indignant. Moriarty, as if finding in Sherlock’s face exactly what he was looking for, abruptly stood up.

 

“I guess we’ll see about that.” He said laconically, as he set the contents of his jacket on the floor next to the slumped detective. Leaving it at least two meters closer than to what the curly-haired man considered comfortable. Sherlock pushed them away with his foot quickly, as if just the bereft touch of them to his skin would burn him. He would not be tempted in this manner.

 

He couldn’t, by any means, accept what was being offered to him. He had already made good progress, and had relapsed a few times too. But this time around, it was different, something had _changed_. Aside from the fact that he desperately needed a clear and keen mind in his state, there were other aspects that warranted consideration. All the other times when he had found himself at this position, helplessly thrusted into this crossroads, he had always been in control. He had utter and complete understanding of what he was doing, and of the reasons why he was doing it. If he had decided one way or the other, was a mere detail, it held no importance, no significance whatsoever. Still if he consented at this proposition, he would be foolishly handing Moriarty the power; and he had already one million and one problems to occupy his too busy mind to just give away his soul to the criminal too.

 

Yielding that level of control would no doubt leave him exposed and vulnerable. And he certainly couldn’t afford to loose any of the unsusceptible leverage he had left. The criminal had somehow managed to crack his shield. He had made a clean and near perfect slit in the detective’s armor, and if it was to be materialized he thought it would match the one in John’s shoulder. It was impressive, he had to give the faux doe-eyed that. There was only so many things one could do to bring the great Sherlock Holmes into despondency. It positively had to had caused some challenge, if not trouble.

 

Many others before the consulting criminal had tried it, really harming him; and some of them actually succeeded, at some extent at least. Some made dents and scratches. Others simply helped building those very walls to begin with. But none of them had truly accomplish what Jim had. To attempt at creating a see-through aperture was just ambitious. 

 

He was never a perfect man, and he had always been far from stable; his sheath was not shiny and new, it was worn-down to the very last finger. Too used to engaging in battle, and already accustomed to receiving all the blows aimed at him. It wasn’t ideal, but it served its purpose well enough. He had learnt since a young age that he would never rid of the marks that were already on his skin from back when it was bare, when it had no protection; however, he could always avoid getting new ones. His sealed shield was impenetrable, and no matter how much damage they could achieve on the outside, the inside always remained the same. Not unscathed, not unharmed, but familiar. That being the very reason why he was never too preoccupied with battle, there was no way anyone could ever get past that barrier. His weak soul protected by hard steel just how it should be, for underneath that facade he was marred beyond repair, he was bruised.

 

That was exactly what Sherlock feared. By cutting open his shield not only did Moriarty had managed to have a real impact on him, but now it also allowed the criminal the possibility to overtake the obstruction. Venomously seeping through the cracks, the detective highly doubted he would hesitate but a little to seize the chance. Vulnerability brought on many a foul things in the silver-gazed man. He couldn’t, by any circumstance, allow this psychopath to wander around his too-secured brain, there was so much darkness he could rendezvous. He would look for something to break him, and God knows he would find he had locked away a lot of specters which could do just that. If Moriarty set his mind to rattling things inside him there was no telling with what sort of demons he would encounter, or what they would do in their wake. But one thing was certain, if those devils were set loose not even holy water would be able to help them.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock couldn’t conjure up anything to do other than to agree helping Moriarty with his shady so-called “chemical impasse” -whatever that meant-. clearly it had not gone according to what the sleuth believed it would. Being trapped with nothing, not a single miserable thing to do which didn’t include staring helplessly and in a forlornly fashion at the small plastic bag the criminal had left to taunt him, proved to be more difficult than he had firstly anticipated, and this is the man who anticipates and foresees everything.

 

He had to decide fast; because if the staring contest with the token of Moriarty’s cleverness dragged on for much longer, the detective was more than convinced he would cave. On one hand he had an accepted opportunity to occupy his mind away from the substance, and on the other, a chance to stand for everything he ever believed. If he was stronger, the dilemma would not even rise consideration, but his addicted brain had to take a decision, had to make a choice, and it selected the one which didn’t involve as much self-destructive behavior as the latter. If he was expected to get out of there someday -he would, no matter what it took- he’d rather do it clean, John would be angry if he didn’t. Hence the resolution of enduring a tad less horrible fate at James’ orders.

 

So, begrudgingly the detective waited for one of the criminal’s brutes to come and check on him -since he accomplished to get the sole camera working in the room to mysteriously stop transmitting- to communicate his decision under one condition: he would agree, only after knowing what was the purpose of what he was doing and not a second later.

 

The psychopath must have been jumping up and down his chair from delight since he managed to clear his ever-so-busy schedule to be present at the moment Sherlock would be allowed to know the problem and would, if only for the pleasure of the criminal, accept to help him with something. Anything. Moriarty didn’t really care what he had to do; in fact, he wasn’t even convinced that the consulting detective’s assistance was required, he just reveled on the notion of knowing that he had made the boffin agree with him in something, albeit it was something as insignificant as crucible.

 

Once every little detail had been explained, and the detective deemed the situation safe enough to continue, he agreed. And after he did, he couldn’t believe that he had actually accepted to help the bastard in any way. If you would have told him two years ago that the day would come in which he would find himself in a situation as this, he most likely would have had you committed within the hour. 

 

As a being already accustomed to always being right, and always having the upper hand. Never having to answer to anyone, forever going two steps ahead of everyone else. He was discombobulated, to say the least, when he found himself at the other side of the fence; and it unnerved him to no end knowing that he, for once, was at a position where mildly laying down his resolve was the only thing he could do. Before everything: before the come-back, before the fall, before John; he would have never even dreamed of preferring the weak action over belligerence. But he had a home to which he must come back now, and people he would be leaving behind if he accepted his fate head-on. He insisted, this damned sentiment will one day be the death of him. Of course, the elementary factor of the potential torture he could endure if he didn’t comply had a tad of say in the matter too. He wasn’t willing to repeat the incident with the water-board. 

 

Hence, here he was, concurring with the monster he swore to destroy. Because it was safer; it was better to aid him in an almost-innocent scheme, and be in some sort of limited probation as a result of it; than to be strapped in a death-trap with nothing but poison to ease his troubled mind.

 

And troubled it was.

 

* * *

 

Crucible. It was crucible. He was expected to help with _crucible_ because Moriarty’s minions were apparently stupid enough not to know how to properly handle a container which shouldn’t melt and could withstand high temperatures when put inside an oven or into the fire. Of course, he knew the criminal’s helpers were more brawn than brain, and probably none of them had even finished school. But still, with a criminal master-mind like James, one would believe he would at least have someone, with whom talking was not akin to trying to rationalize with a lab monkey. 

 

There was always the chance that the criminal and his men had lied about the mere purpose of the solving of this particular conundrum. Maybe melting people’s bodies was more accurate than the need to just have a pot which you could use for experimental intentions; fact that was very possible. The detective casted those unsavory thoughts away from his present mind; ignorance in the real plans of the psychopath was the wiser path to tread, since he had no other choice -which he was willing to take- but to help. 

 

After being asked for the materials which would be needed, Sherlock received everything he had written on the list. When told that he was to make the most tolerable to highest temperatures object he could with what was brought, he decided to go for zirconium, deeming it resistant enough to do the part, and easy enough to handle to end this quickly for him. 

 

His hands were sort of bound. Loosely so he could move about and work, but nonetheless restrained, to prevent him from that attempt of escaping everyone knew would take place if he was to be let free with chemicals and only daft morons to defy him. Despite of being on a leash, Sherlock felt a sensation akin to freedom burning its way through him. The strangest type of liberty one could ever encounter when in a trying time; he found deliverance in the fact of not having any time to himself. Keeping his attention elsewhere, he could pretend as if it was all a ruse. An elaborated trick of the violent lights of a world in which he was not obliged to help built what could very possibly be a death-ray to destroy human kind, in order to steer his addicted mentality from an imminent relapse.

 

Jim was perched on a high chair next to the table where all the magic was happening. After his helpers readied the work space, he shoo’ed them away; the prisoner and his captor alone once again. If he was being completely honest with himself, the detective was actually grateful for that tiny fact. Not because he, in any way, enjoyed the company of the brown-haired man, but because the last thing he needed right now was a daft neanderthal pestering him while he was attempting to work. 

 

His psyche was reveling at the mere thought of having something to achieve, in which he was able to channel his vast and immense intellect. Jim watched him twirl around looking for substances and just work with honest interest the first few minutes, but as anyone with half a brain would have been able to guess, the appeal didn’t last long, and was soon exhausted with the passivity portrayed by the chemistry, which seemed to have deliberately chosen to react at snail’s pace just to spite him. The tell-tale signs of boredom were already visible, clear as day to the detective -who was too accustomed to feeling that himself since he was no stranger to trying to cope with tedious endeavors- even before the criminal realized it himself. Rotating in his chair like some broken record which could not stop playing despite the fact of only producing a detrimental symphony. 

 

The silver-gazed man smiled inside at the predicament into which the criminal had so foolishly put himself. Adamant, that he alone, was the only one who could successfully make the musician stay true to the plan and not scheme some sort of strategy. As if that would impede him of trying something if he had the means, unfortunately there was only so much he could do with the chemicals delivered. 

 

Hours passed and wasted away, and for one of the men cloistered in that ex-wine cellar, they seem to turn into repeated solar cycles. As the other one set his keen eyes over a microscope, all he could do was observe, and truthfully, he felt like plucking his eyeballs out just to have something other to do than this. When he planned on Sherlock agreeing with helping him, he had anticipated it to be much more fun than this -not that it wasn’t delicious, mind you- but the humiliation of getting him to do something for him just to maintain his sorry arse off the drugs, however satisfactory, wasn’t going to prevent him from turning violently fatigued to death. That’s why when the sleuth decided to speak, he embraced the conversation like a lifeline.

 

“How I have always found zirconium fascinating,” Sherlock stated, not averting his eyes from the table for even a second. The criminal had the suspicion that he was talking more to himself than to him. The man was clearly having a secret monologue inside his Mind Palace, only for himself to hear. It would be totally rude to interrupt him now, except that he was Moriarty, and he never cared for such things as _manners_.

 

“How come?” He inquired.

 

Once the detective came to know what was really happening, he changed his answer. Metamorphosing its semantics and elaborating a more suitable one to reply to the psychopath, a more precisely tweezers-picked comment which would prove convenient in the never-ending game they always found themselves playing. “You see, the problem is they always try to destroy it,” He explained, being aware that he was definitely throwing himself into the wolf’s mouth. But he did not mind, not really. He always knew about the so-called East Wind, -thanks to Mycroft- that would someday rush its way into the Earth with invisible tails of air like whips, and pluck out every machiavellian sinner like bad weed being ripped out from the dirt. And he also knew that if the prophesy -metaphor- was to be true, he would not be spared of punishment once it came; taking both, him and Moriarty, in its greedy claws and smashing them against the mud in equal proportion. 

 

But this was not a heavenly chastisement. That wasn’t the sort of game they played, it wasn’t a case of deserving fate, or “From above, the wicked shall receive their just reward”. No, he had to make his own luck, and proving to the criminal he was still standing was the first step to gaining back the upper hand. “But they fail to realize this metal is extremely resistible, and far stronger than what they deem it to be.” 

 

Once the words all escaped out of his mouth, Moriarty recognized them for exactly what they were supposed to be: a battle cry. Just as he was about to answer in kind, someone opened up the heavy door and slipped inside, panting. Frightened and unwanted, and started talking of ill news and mistakes at light-speed, and it was all the consulting criminal could do not to throttle him right there. Infuriated, rolling his eyes at the missed opportunity of an entertaining confrontation. “What’s happened now?” His tone exasperated, and Sherlock was glad he was present to watch this. It was always good fortune to see the brown-eyed man suffer on this situation like him, if only but a little.

 

“We can’t smuggle the merchandise,” The lad started nervously -who the sleuth knew had three brothers, a cancer-ill mother and an absent father, youngest sibling still a toddler and mother ex-secretary fired for having an affair with a married co-worker before she knew about her disease; if his left shoe and the button of his brown jacket were anything to go by- and shifted alternating feet. “The mafia won’t let us.”

 

“Oh they won’t let you? Tell me something, Logan; is the mafia your boss?” Moriarty was using his faux-sweet voice, the one that signals when things are about to get really ugly. It was obvious the great consulting criminal would never allow someone to prevent him in getting exactly what he wanted, not even the great consulting detective; not if he could help it.

 

“N-no, sir.” The young man, apparently called _Logan,_ stuttered out. His eyes going wide with terror, clearly it was not the first time James chose to tell him off, and in his pupils and color-changing irises, the sleuth could tell the worker feared it may be the last time.

 

“Are their interest more important than mine?” The spider playing his favorite game. Ever laying down a trap for the sad fly to walk into. And if this bloke did not tread lightly, the psychopath would snare him and swallow him whole. Not that the detective cared one way or the other, this man was obviously a crook whom he would gladly put into a jail cell if given the chance; but he’d rather not see any more blood-spilling after the fiasco with the father and his firstborn.

“Of course not, sir.” He answered, trying to assure the criminal that there was not a single bone of doubt within him, that there was no need of disappearing him.

 

“Good. Dispose of them all, then.” The curly-haired man curled his lips in distaste at the nonchalance with which he talked about murdering people. Yes, mafia people were more than a bit not good, and yes, he did kill a few of Moriarty’s minions -and his right hand- when he was dismantling his network, but at least the thought of taking another human being’s life away stirred him and strained him just a tad.

 

“But sir, we’re talking about at least 72 people, including lads.” Logan made the mistake of talking back. When someone is that bat-shit crazy, you _never_ talk back. Unless you have the same level of insanity, hence the clever battle of wits in which both consultants engaged more than quite often.

 

“I said: Dispose of them.” James took a quick look to the detective, and as the detective raised both his eyebrows, Jim turned his heated glare to Logan once again, as if saying _You’re embarrassing me in front of my greatest nemesis. Shut. Up._

 

“But, sir...” Perseverance in this case would not aid the stout in anyway. Quite the contrary, if he managed to irritate him any more he would most certainly wake up underwater.

 

“Why do you keep defying me? Tell me, if I was to thrust you into the center of the mafia, would they hesitate in ending you?” Moriarty asked in his ever-changing voice, riding the pitch like a sick roller-coaster in which nobody felt even remotely comfortable. Sherlock hated that familiar lilt the most.

 

“No, sir” He answered realizing his mistake. 

 

“Well then, maybe you should worry less about the mafia who’ve already made up their mind about killing you, and start worrying more about me who’s still mulling it over.” The smirk of amusement that had been painted in the detective’s face was soon erased at the muttering of these words. He realized he was getting used to this life far too much. His captor, no matter how much history and moves played stored from previous altercations, was a total mad bastard who would not hesitate in killing even someone from his own team if he was exasperated enough. Just the fact that Sherlock could somehow and sometimes see himself in this man didn’t mean he had not capture him for torture. Didn’t mean he was not there to be played, not to play with.

 

“Yes, sir.” If you could somehow re-arrange the syntax of the words “scared to death” into facial expressions, Logan’s face would be its definition in the English Oxford Dictionary.

 

“Now, watch pretty-boy over here. I need to cut some heads.” He rolled his eyes once again and gestured the detective as if he was a little kid who had annoyed too many nannies and whose parents were completely done in trying to find him anyone even remotely suitable for the job; he felt as if the criminal thought of Logan too little to -rather begrudgingly- leave him in the presence of his mighty greatest enemy. 

 

As Jim was about to stomp out the door, probably to literally behead somebody, he stopped in his tracks, and turned to the detective once more. The smirk on his face reminded the boffin of one he had seen one day on a crime scene, with a body beaten to death and mouth lines prolonging to his cheeks in a morbid smile. He couldn’t hate it more even if he tried. “You know, you’re right about zirconium.” The criminal started, and it took exactly .024 seconds for the musician to understand he was picking up the conversation they had earlier. “Fire will do very little to it.” He haltedfaking a pensive face. “However, if you shred it into tiny pieces it will ignite and burn itself.” Once the words were released and sent flying out of the criminal’s lips, Sherlock interpreted exactly what they meant: he was _fucked_.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who is reading this story, I appreciate and value your support. 
> 
> Things will start to get complicated next chapter.


	6. Chapter 5: The Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tri•al : |ˈtrī(ə)l| noun.
> 
> Test of the performance, qualities, or suitability of someone or something to then provide a proper sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay.

Chapter 5: The Trial.

 

 

 

 

 

The detective tried to work smoothly after the conversation he had with his biggest nemesis, but those attempts were deemed futile after the third broken glass beaker. He had to stamp down those feelings of anxiousness before he managed to get himself in even more trouble than he already was. Thankfully the Logan lad, who was supposed to be keeping a watchful eye over him, seemed to be too preoccupied with fretting himself to even realize the boffin was in greater distress. Not that he minded, of course. Every chance at being left alone to gather his control back was welcome.Thankfully, he was swift at chemistry, and despite of what the criminal might say to complain about its pace in motion, he was fairly satisfied with the tempo in which the science was making its progress. Soon he would be able to just put all of this _“crucible versus drugs-and-disappointment”_ business aside. 

 

As his hands worked in a far too easy task, he let his mind wander somewhere else. He began thinking about the fortnight he had already spent in that particular circle of hell, tailor-made just for him; and about how Mycroft hadn’t found him yet. To other people it may not sound normal, or even logical, for Sherlock to rely on his brother to show up and save him, not after all the animosity they seemed to have. But what they all failed to see was that _it_ was all it was: a mirage. No matter how much sibling rivalry they appeared to have, each one cared deeply for the other, in their own _Holmesian_ way. They would never be able to have a normal sibling relationship because neither of them was even close to normal. And neither of them knew how to show affection to someone else, let alone each other. So, instead they did this, Mycroft pretended to watch Sherlock for responsibility, and Sherlock pretended to be annoyed by it. Sherlock would solve Mycroft’s cases, and Mycroft would get him out of whatever mess into which he managed to get himself while solving them.

 

Sherlock was aware of this fact, but he preferred not to acknowledge it, as if saying it out loud would change the dynamics of their long-acquired equilibrium and teeter their world off balance. It was not perfect, it was not ideal. It was dysfunctional at the least. But, not the detective nor the British Government particularly minded, since when it actually mattered, they were there, ready to put themselves on the line. 

 

Reason why he felt distraught by his ongoing lack of appearance. It wasn’t at all like Mycroft to take this long to locate him. Sometimes the detective found himself wondering if he had somehow installed a tracking chip in his body while asleep; and knowing his brother he wouldn’t put it past him to do exactly that, if only for the sake of being his nosy self. There had to be a reason why his brother hadn’t found him yet,the pastry-lover was always on the right track, always right -the git- and the detective hoped this wouldn’t be the case which prove that hypothesis wrong, which would defeat the great Mycroft Holmes. He stopped that train of thought rather quickly, he had to stop himself from going over the worst case scenarios, or he would have to start worrying about distressing himself crazy. He trusted Mycroft, that’s why he entrusted him with the ever-important task of watching John while he was away.

 

John. Now he was thinking about John. And he definitely did not need that right now. If Mycroft was indeed destined to fail at finding him, there was only one other man who would ever be able to. The blogger may not be as smart as them, and he might not have the same level of deduction skills, but he can stand his ground and apply methods that were constantly being fed to him by his seemingly ludicrous flatmate. 

 

In truth, Sherlock would never wish for his friend to become like him, to appear as a watered-down, second-best version of Sherlock Holmes. His humanity and strong sense of integrity were always a foil to the detective’s hurricane-like cold nature; always keeping things in contrast, heightening both their importances. He wanted him to stay brave, and loyal, and hideous-jumpers-wearing. He wanted him to stay everything that Sherlock was not. To stay so utterly _John_. 

 

But in the lifestyle they lead there wasn’t room for risk, at least not one on which the boffin could afford gambling. So he taught his cabbie-shooter flatmate everything he knew. Hoping that in an emergency which didn’t acquire physical or gun confrontation -both at which John Watson was unquestionably excellent- he could, should the situation present itself, use whatever he had learnt from his whirlwind of a friend, however little that was, to keep both of them alive. 

 

If his instincts were right, the doctor was already working his way through the case, and was one step closer to coming to his aid. Oh! how brilliant it would be for John to be the one to figure out where he was. The detective regretted that he was heldcaptive and would miss it -but then again, if he weren’t, there would be no need for him to do it-. He could imagine his loyal blogger picking up clues no one else could see, and tying the facts together as his brother and all the _Yarders_ gaped at him amazed. Maybe he would even go as far as sharing his unique position and name his little apprentice the second consulting detective ever, but he would have to consider it after it happened. 

 

Because Sherlock knew it was going to happen. No matter if the situation proved too difficult for Mycroft to figure it out; John was coming for him, John was getting him out from the pit of snakes in which he would certainly drown if left there. John would save him, as he always managed to do. That time in The Great Game case -he was going to have to have a talk with John about those infernal titles that seemed to etch themselves upon the detective’s mind- he said it; he would be lost without his blogger, and a truer statement was never spoken.

 

Sherlock was also aware of this fact, but he refused to acknowledge it as well. The soldier had no idea how much impact he had had after the day he came limping into his life, and the boffin wasn’t sure he could ever repay everything he has done for him. For Sherlock was an extraordinary man, everyone knew that, -going as far as calling him _freak_ \- unsurprisingly doing everything in kind; he was almost predictable in his exceptionality. But John Watson was a much more complex matter. He was not really deemed of bizarreness himself; he was never an unusual individual. That was the catch though, an ordinary man known for doing extraordinary things. The detective -ever since the first time he laid eyes on him. The moment he really looked- had generated a respect towards his addicted-to-danger flatmate, that only developed and grew as time went by. A man capable of surprising Sherlock Holmes, the only one in the world.

 

The thought about them lasted a bit more than he had originally intended -not that he really planned it at all- and soon started becoming on a full-on pondering. He ran through scenarios of what both of them could be doing to find him. He needed to escape that place as if it was on fire. Because now he was in probation, a time designed to let him get use to the fact of working around his enemies; of coexisting with his very destruction. But if he knew a man like Moriarty, he was certain that would only last so far. 

 

- _“It’s him. I know it. We don’t need evidence, it’s just a detail.”_ -A shattering cacophony bounced on the four walls like viciously desperate cries as the object in the detective’s hands slipped from his grasp and crashed unto the dirty floor in a clattering mess which would have put Baker Street to shame. Sherlock, eyes wide and searching for the memory to somehow materialize out of thin air in front of him, turned around to find Logan already making his way to the debris of the curly-haired man’s sudden panic. 

 

Kneeling down to try and clear the glass pieces up from the floor, the lad looked up through his lashes at the boffin. “Well, that makes four.” He spoke, and said detective could only stop and stare, confused at the innocent amusement with which those words were muttered so effortlessly to him by someone who had been quiet as a tomb for the four days they had been caged together. He was nowhere near a state of mind to make deductions, the surprise of the new found reminiscence still weighing him down with a foggy cloud of dread which just would not go away not matter how much he shook it. But perhaps a good unraveling of someone else’s life would help him clear away the smoke which the fire of his own mouth voicing something he didn’t -despite his best efforts- remember, left in its devastating wake. If he could just get rid of the blur on his eyes.

 

After the chaos had been cleared away, Logan turned to the table and grabbed another beaker. With his hand extended in unexpected invitation to the musician, he offered the container and said, “Try not the break this one, or we’ll run out.” And the silver, calculating eyes thought they saw something else there. Exasperation? No, too amused to be annoyed. Ah, he discarded that hypothesis, but got it right at the second attempt nonetheless: remorse. A little hint of guilt, which made the boffin take what was being offered, and swallow down his opinions. The sense of identification with the lad in front of him resulted in making peace with the idea of this bloke. They were both trapped, and both of them were being played like little puppets by the same wicked master, with no way or hope of escaping. The only difference in their situations being that Logan was on the right -wrong, depending on your point of view- side of the fence. Teaming up with, instead of going up against, the criminal mastermind. Less likely to end up gutted somewhere. Whereas Sherlock was just on the wait for his contender to attack him; not even wondering about _if’s_. Because he was coming for him, Sherlock was sure of that, he just had to figure out the _when_ and _how_. 

 

Still, Sherlock could not stir his attention away from the recollection that washammering away the nail in his subconscious; piercing through his skull until it hit home and resided at his brain, never to be removed. The detective should have felt blessed with luck, wasn’t it exactly what he had asked? To discover more about the things he forgot? But it somehow did not feel like a benediction, the fact of hearing your own tongue say such out-of-character words, and dismissing some things you used to think about yourself. It was not much of a gift, it didn’t bring any sense ofvalidation, it left him numb. Immune to any sort of emotion aside from curiosity. It was disapprovingly lacking in answers.

 

His mind going into overdrive, the worst way the detective knew: silent. It was rendered so tightly and split into so many trains of thought that nothing concrete could manage to get out. Leaving him embed to the floor with a blank mind, as if he were suspended in mid-air, trapped in a sleep-walking state. Recognizing what took place around him, but not participating. Foreign to the world; not dreaming, but not quite awake either. He hated when this happened, primarily because whenever it did, the only thing that could calm his head was a resource he no longer could afford. His tired body too numb as a result of feeling too much. He needed something to make him concentrate, to focus the whirling of ideas. 

 

He had been granted the opportunity, but he couldn’t indulge in it. Not anymore. No matter how hard he kept staring at the temptation, he was doomed to suffer at the mercy of his own state of mind. Because, much to his luck, the only anesthetic that ever had the miracle of making him feel something, killed him inside.

 

* * *

 

 

One more day passed, but Sherlock’s condition did not improve in the slight-less. He was becoming tired, significantly less efficient, and dangerously jumpy. The smallest ofsounds would make him dart around as if searching and no resting until the source of the unannounced words was located, fearful of them coming from his own memory. He shouldn’t be losing his mind right now, he had other more important matters to solve, and a mental breakdown would only make him lose precious time. But still, who would be able to stop it?

 

Because an idea like that one would not be easily swayed. How was he expected to deter it from slicing his skin with its sharp claws? From separating his epidermis apart, muscle, and veins, and ribs, and crawling its way into his lungs? Eating up alveoli and exchanging his oxygen for something toxic his body would not tolerate for much? A fight with Moriarty, or even the devil himself -not that there was any difference- was simple, easy when you locate your enemy, and it becomes _“eat or be eaten”_. But one can only run from oneself so far. A battle with himself would end up in destruction, because no matter what strategy he chose to inflict. No matter which side won in the end; he would always end up losing in some way.

 

He must have been doing a quite disappointing job, considering Jim showed up that day to try and sort out what the hell was wrong with him. He was close to finishing up the crucible, but he clearly had decreased in speed and concentration. This, of course, did not happen to him commonly; but he was not exactly sane. The criminal must have sensed Sherlock’s conundrum as his tone turned from scolding and exasperated to amused and pleased.

 

“Something the matter, Sherls?” He asked, as if he were concerned. Thankfully, the musician knew that ruse all too well, and would never believe it for one second. He was never one for sentimentalities -even if he did, sometimes, sympathized with the consulting criminal- but looking at the face of this monster, he couldn’t help but wonder what had occurred to him that made him so, empty.

 

He decided that despite of everything he already knew about the Irish, he would cast it all aside and deduce him from scratch. It was the only way he was ever going to really know him, with an un-biased observation. Starting from his shoes. Then his Westwood attire. Next his hair, his posture, his hands, and finally, his face.

 

The man was lacking in information at all of the above, only a few little hints here and there. He was almost a clean slate. But, unlike Irene Adler, he did have one deadly give-away: the cool pools of cloggy tar he commonly passed off as eyes.

 

The detective bore his gaze into those dark orbs for a minute; which then turned into seemingly hours, and days, and years. And he had never before been able to so exquisitely deduce someone for such a little percentage of their body. It was fascinating to read everything inside those bottomless pits of destruction. He was sure he was watching Moriarty’s thoughts dance around him a sick twisted waltz, and the criminal was letting him. 

 

He began choosing those which seemed to bear more importance, and picked them apart like a little experiment. All of those tell-tale signs which were only begging to be unraveled, looked a lot clearer now. And Sherlock wondered about what he saw, for even he, who worked with criminals everyday, had never encountered something so devoid of meaning. He was sure Moriarty was biologically born a human, a man. But what could have ever happened to turn him so demonic, Sherlock could not guess. 

 

When he was eight, unconsciously trying to solve his first murder case, he remembers he used to be so obsessed with the why’s. The how and the who, he already knew, he could already see. But in his tiny young mind, the future detective could not conceive the reason why anyone would think doing that sort of endeavor would ever be necessary. Of course, as he grew up his understanding got broader, his brain started becoming less and less innocent, and all the beliefs for fairytales and magic -not that he ever truly believed them- got lost in the thrill of the chase. And what used to intrigue him, was soon left to rot in the far corners of his Mind Palace. 

 

He got used to murderers always having a tale to tell. A reason why they believed the crime was somehow justified at some exceedingly tiny degree. Love, being almost always the main source of the real problem, the shadow behind the curtains of the wicked. The moment he saw James, he wrongly assumed the same thing about him. And suddenly the little boy was back again, wondering the cause of said darkness. What could Moriarty have possibly done to become the man he is now? Had he just dug his pointy knifes at his chest and ripped his heart out in a decidedly swift movement? And if he did, what had he done with the organ after?

 

Some men who live against the law never really regret what they’ve done, had grown immune to emotions, advocating for themselves with an elaborate line of lies to exonerate them from their own trial. Some men just become unapologetic. But the lack of remorse which the boffin found in the criminal’s gaze was of a different nature. It was a violently empty sentiment, and Sherlock could not wrap his head around the paradox. 

 

He understood at last, that Jim didn’t tear his heart out, never really having one to begin with. He had no sob-stories like the rest of the lesser criminals. He was not some misunderstood child who just lashed out at another because of the turmoil inside of himself. Moriarty was born as that. That’s what made him so good, so brilliant at his job. The corrupted asset already woven to his soul before he was even born. And he had never known any different. His eyes will always be dry, his hands will always be steady, and his conscience will always stay clear. 

 

Which made the detective ponder which one was worse. Some of them chose to participate in the appalling things that happened daily. And all the fault was really theirs to answer for. But what happens with evil men as the consulting criminal, who are just born evil? Are they trapped, stuck inside a role they must play till their lungs finally decide to give out, just because the world needs darkness to appreciate light? Does this make them worthy of absolution? 

 

As he watched the smile which was being handed to him so carelessly, the curly-hair man decided the answer to the previous question was “ _No, it doesn’t_ ”. He had been born with the same set of specters within him. And the loud beings would never let a day pass by without reminding him about all the potential to accomplish what would be considered _bad things_ that he carried with him all the time. Like a heavy burden which was thrusted upon him. But the detective struggles a lot to lock each and every one of the ghouls where they could never scape, and chose instead to drag the curse attached to his feet like a ball and chain, and carry it over his crumbling shoulders, rather than wearing it like an armor. Even so, he knew he hardly deserved to be at the receiving end of mercy. So what made Moriarty any better than him? and for that instance, what made Sherlock any better than Moriarty?

 

For the first time since they met, the detective found himself understanding the Irish man completely. Making him a lot more terrifying. Realizing all that mockery he bore inside his mind of anything resembling hope vanished with that attainment. He would be lucky, for lack of a better word, if he made it out alive. Because if Jim set out to cut the boffin down, to rip to shreds all his dignity, and put him back together again to please his will, there would be nothing akin to good left of him. “No.” He answered.

 

* * *

 

 

The crucible was finished; according to the mental schedule Sherlock had estimated it would take. And he found himself on a _post-case-like_ sulk. Moriarty’s attempts of controlling every aspect of his existence were proving to be terrifyingly effective. He was already getting used to the fact of having a routine, and felt hopelessly bored when his only distraction was stolen from him, if he didn’t start tying a rope on his attitude he would soon find himself absentmindedly agreeing with everything the lunatic had to ask, just for the sake of stop being so bloody bored. 

 

As if he weren’t already too strained, the taser made a comeback, with a vengeance. It was the criminal’s favourite past-time. The musician was starting to understand how, even if it didn’t leave a mark physically, and in consideration the pain was not something he couldn’t handle, a consistent string of petty attacks to his skin was leaving the realm of simply _“annoying”_ to become in _“despair which only comes when one is pocked in the brain continuously”_. The spider’s plan was starting to unravel its nature in front of his eyes. If no one came for him, soon enough the itch in his mind would turn into a severe case of cabin fever, and even an idiot like Anderson knows there’s no coming back from that. At least not for a person like Sherlock.

 

Because, normally, a person like Sherlock means someone who will gather data, and discover all those pretty little secrets you try to keep tucked under your bed for no one else to see; all those flaws that spill from your skin like neon lights, and the weaknesses you don’t even know you posses. Who collects them in a sick fashion of fascination and tugs at the strings to all of them just to know which of them will snap. Who will wait, and plan, and scheme, until you are convinced he’s forgotten about your deeds; until “element of surprise” doesn’t even begin to describe the lack of expectation the receiving party will have. And then, and only then, will he lay out his means and beat you. Clean, intelligently, elegantly, and you would never have a clue on exactly _what_ hit you.

 

That was the usual -if not normal- stoic, cold, genius, sometimes sociopathic, Sherlock. Always having the intellectual high-ground. But once you have stripped him of that, once you have taken all sense of impersonal fighting from him; being like Sherlock could mean something completely different. Compulsive, and fiddle, and wild. A hound which will not hesitate to tear you apart until there’s nothing left of you but ribbons of shredded flesh. All red-eyed and animalistic. A beast howling a guttural shriek; over-emotional and auto-destructive. And what could ever be more dangerous than a creature which doesn't really care if, while bringing down its pray, it destroys itself in the process? A man with nothing left but his own thirst of revenge would go to great lengths to achieve it, no matter the cost; because there really is nothing that life could hurl at him which he would consider worse than what he already has. And without taking in consideration the bitter success he would celebrate after, he would just be trying to hold tightly in his palms something he already lost, the empty matter of _nothing_ that inhabits between his grasp. Forever reminding him of just how hollow he’s become inside, and by then, a death in the hands of his enemy would be more welcome than the triumph of any battle, no matter the prize. Because in life, he only has his loathing; but while bringing down the curse of his blessings, in death, he would genuinely rise victorious. 

 

That’s why a man like Sherlock could never recover from something so utterly brain-consuming as an illness born out of isolation. Not without an specific sort of help, as for example: a miracle worker. Because losing control doesn’t suit well with him, and depleting the only resource he had in his life, deeming it unsuitable and therefore, useless, would break him. In what does a man who all his life has only ever have his genius on which to rely, believe, if he cannot believe in his own mind?

 

* * *

 

 

Although having tried to delete it, the detective had failed to erase one certain mundane, and useless thing from his hard-drive. And now, it was coming back to bite him. He always took special careful behavior over what he stored in his mind, and assiduously hand-picked each and every thing which he deemed suitable and important enough to warrant a place among all the knowledge he possessed. Of course, there were a few things he just couldn’t delete, but he took great care in seeing that everything he positively did not want inside of his head stayed trapped in one of the three locked rooms he had built within the palace, and it should’ve stayed that way.

 

But when it comes down to it, the boffin could understand the reason why his own mind had chosen to bring forth this particular data. Him, not ever having been one for metaphors, found himself elaborating an analogy of his situation with an ancient myth, and after what he had set off with Moriarty, he could only muster two words that could come close to describing it: _Pandora´s box_.

 

A day after the crucible was done, the criminal had payed another one of his unwanted visits, and with Sherlock being currently at the middle of a strop, it was fair to imagine things would only go south from there.

 

“Holiday’s over. It’s time we continue with our little game.” He stood in the middle of the room, just assessing the enormity of what he had already achieved and what he would accomplish. Boasting around with Sherlock as a supposedly well-earned trophy as if saying “ _Look what I’m doing to this man! Look how strong he was and I’m just tearing him apart!_ ” and the consulting detective would comment, but his mind was more preoccupied with much more relevant things than embarrassment. And while his brain ran and circled and hopped, his temper would attempt to murder anyone who dared to interrupt him.

 

“No.” Came the strong baritone voice from the annoyed form curled up in the floor, with his back against the world, not even deigning to acknowledge its existence. “No.” He said again, even though he abhorred repetition, he felt once was not enough of an impact to make his resolve known.

 

“What?” The criminal asked in disbelieve. “ _No_?” His warning tone could be recognized from outer space. He was giving him a chance. An opportunity to back-pedal and changed what he had just said. Because if you could believe his word -which you couldn’t- he didn’t take pleasure in punishing him.

 

“Yes: No” The boffin knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn’t exactly bring himself to care. He wasn’t just going to sit there and take the abuse any longer. The brown-eyed man had already taken a little too much from him, and he refused to do as he said and be ridiculed for it again without at least putting up a fight. 

 

“Perhaps I may have not made myself clear, here.” He stalked towards the back of the other man. “You have no say in this,” The criminal fisted a handful of raven locks and yanked back the man’s head until the musician’s skull was moved, and he was left facing upside down at the face hovering above his. “And you will deny me nothing!” His temper, as a perfect imitation of the detective’s, flew out of the metaphorical window. 

 

As soon as Sherlock felt insidious worms snaking through his wild curls, a burning sensation of dread and disgust crept along his spine. His head was pulled back, and it would all be very amusing if it weren’t so abominable. For when one looks up at the sky, at heaven, one expects to find angels, to find some source of comfort and help; and he, very agreeably with his luck, could only see the exact opposite. He supposed it was to be expected, since celestial beings, if ever real, would not want anything to do with him, not ever. 

 

“You can, and I’m sure you will, attempt to take any piece of me you please. But you can’t expect me to lay down my soul for you; as I said before: _you cannot break me_.” The words crept out of his mouth, belligerence-dripping and threatening, up to a state of catatonia to any lesser man they encountered in their path. But Moriarty was no lesser man -if a man at all- and poison-coated sentences did nothing to him. He was used to hatred, he knew that dance already. And any venom that Sherlock could ever leach out at him, the parasites beneath his flesh would eat alive before it could do any damage. After all, with what else do you feed your bloodsucking minuscule friends if not with tiny slices of consulting detective?

 

James released his head with forceful anger, making it bounce slightly on the wall before him. The hit had his forehead already being marked by a red blotch on the middle and his brain rattling inside his skull. A powerful migraine was on its way to have a full effect on his abilities, and why did the lights just seem so bright?

 

“I do not believe in unbreakable things.” The maniac said, taking a step back. Watching as the detective brought his hand to his temple, and the corners of hismouth turned upwards a bit. Sherlock could never conjure how was everything always so easy for him. How did he manage to always be one step ahead? Whilst the boffin was forever stuck stumbling behind him, never quite gaining. Never being able to keep up.

 

“There’s nothing more to be done tonight, though. You have already been judged.” The psychopath couldn’t seem to decide if he was addressing the captive before him, or the horde of neanderthals he brought with himself into the room. They had appeared to have gone full-circle, the two of them; the musician thought bitterly. Only with the slight difference that it was him, rather than the criminal, who was being held in trial this time. “You are to know the verdict tomorrow morning.”

 

That got the detective’s attention. Tomorrow? Since when did the criminal left something really worthy in entertainment for _to-morrow_? He couldn’t even fathom why would anyone wish to delay something which could offer them any level of excitement. “Why?” He blurted out before he could stop himself. Curiosity was a second-nature to him, and sometimes -more often than not- it got the best of him. When Jim looked at him bewildered, as if not having expected the question, the silver-gazed man elaborated. “Why wait until tomorrow? Why not start today?”

 

The query was unanticipated, but Moriarty supposed the nature was completely understandable. If the roles were reversed, he also would wonder why was his enemy stalling, neither of them being virtuous in the art of patience. “You are going to have to brace yourself and mind for what’s coming,” A fair answer to a just question, andthe scowl the other man was wearing was enough to make the consulting criminal feel rather smug. “I’m offering you a sporting head-start, prey. I suggest you seize it.”

 

And that’s how Sherlock found himself at the situation in which he was now. All the bad and sick things that anyone could ever imagine raining down on him. Escaping Moriarty’s head after being trapped for so long, even before actually happening. Dancing and flying away from their origin, those cruel, atrocious beings were inexorable. Darklings, so somber yet so bright, that when the detective took a seeing at them, they tore through his eyes and left him undoubtedly blind. And even though the musician didn’t know exactly what the criminal was going to do with him, he could see how it would play out. 

 

Because when one sets out to satiate their own curiosity with trying to play fate, probing and poking at the beast, one’s hand is bound to be chewed off. And when thecase that was the brain of the most disturbed man on earth was opened just to see what was inside it, maledictions were destined to be let out. All good things would be consumed and devoured by a sucking leech. Any comforting thought had died out a whimpering death, and the curly-haired man’s hope was next in line. He realized his mistake at tampering with things he didn’t completely comprehend, because now he could see -even if he didn’t know how- his destruction just because he wanted to _know_. Now he understood, that just like Pandora, he should’ve never opened that box.

  

* * *

 

 

 

In short, it all could summarize with Sherlock needing to find a way to be able to get his whole of consulting detective being out of the mess he had created for himself. The faster, the better. Preferably before morning came, as then was the time in which the criminal had chosen for him to meet his punishment head-on. If he could only just _think_. 

 

He closed his leaden eyelids and took a cleansing breath. His form went back to its previous position facing the wall, as he tried to ignore everything that was awaiting for him behind his back. And it really couldn’t be more obvious, even if he had it written all over his forehead, that he was afraid. Afraid of what Moriarty was going to do to make sure he _burned_. Afraid to think he was semi-abandoned since someone had yet to show up; and afraid of the fact that he was near a tipping point in which the small plastic bag was starting to sound outstandingly appealing. The first two were easy to tune out. The latter, however, was a much greater threat; because when Sherlock so arrogantly and eloquently said it would be tremendously ambitious of someone to try to kill him, he was not lying. The self-same detective was one of the few who had that skill. And self-destructive behavior was not a concept unknown to him, nor was it unpracticed. 

 

The day John; brave, sometimes stupid John, shoot the cabbie to save his life he never explained why he did it, and the boffin never asked, nor he ever really felt like he had to. In some way, somehow, John had seen the greatest threat and gotten rid of its cause before Sherlock could advance on his purposes. And as if it were already imprinted in his DNA, the blogger recognized danger when he saw it. The doctor was probably unaware of the real reasons for which he did what he did, and for which he sacrificed so much so quickly. But Sherlock, brilliant Sherlock, knew them, and had perused them over and over in his head like a learnt by heart poem. Because he was aware that John had unconsciously realized what the biggest menace had been. Not the dubious pill, nor the vigilant cabbie. And had, consequentially, proceeded to eliminate its nearest catalyst. He shoot the other man, yes; but he saved the boffin from someone far more dangerous: himself. _“Because you’re an idiot”_.

 

Staring at the wall in front, the detective just knew he needed to elaborate a plan which would stop Moriarty from proceeding with his plan, or at least stall him a bit. Maybe something inside his Mind Palace would help. He arranged his long limbs and took on his thinking posture. Hands coming to stipple under his chin and slowly closed his eyes at the outside reality to sink in the familiarity of his own universe.

 

_He walked through a long corridor, which twisted left, then right, and then left again; until finally stopping at a Cul-de-sac like hall. Several rooms rowed rounding the circle. He ignored the first three, and went inside the one next to a door with “Tobacco ash” written in it. He knew he shouldn’t really be there, he had avoided that chamber for a reason, but desperate times call for desperate measures._

 

_Once inside, he started rummaging all the boxes, and stacks of papers. Hoping to find anything useful amongst the chaos._ Usually his mind was tidy and organized at the worst, but this was one of those three rooms he never allowed himself to explore, for they contained things he had tried to delete but couldn’t. After all this was done, and he was safe and sound at Baker Street, he will have to put a new lock on the items inside these chambers, since they somehow seemed to be leaking out; like that horrid incident with Pandora’s box.

 

_He opened a cabinet and got a yellow file from it. He traced his fingers through the inscription, labeled “Bart’s Roof”. Even though these pages contained useful information about Moriarty and his battle tactics, they were written with what the boffin called “sentiment ink”, every bit of data was dripping with it. And that was not only inconvenient, but difficult too. He skimmed through the words and recognized them instantly._

 

_On the side of the angels...You always want everything to be clever....You think you can make me do that?...As long as I’m alive, you can save your friends...You’re just getting that now?...All the king’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to...Good luck with that._

 

Remembering that conversation always left him with a void inside his chest. An empty tree of dread just growing and twisting its roots, and branches, and twigs completely tuning out anything else. In that rooftop was one of the first times he really doubted he would ever win. The plan was already set up,yes; and he had been confident it would work, certain nobody would know about his faked suicide. He would fool Moriarty, and he would fool his entire network. He would fool his acquaintances, his fans, the whole world, just as the great magician he always was. Because it was ever just that: a magic trick. A deceit, a ruse, a deception, a decoy, an illusion, a _fraud_. A deception so sophisticatedly foreseen which left no room for doubt, or suspicion. Not for anyone. And no-one would ever see through it, because he would be gone, and when he returned, anyone who would object wouldn’t be able to know. But, by going, by hiding and running, he would desert a life, leave people behind with no guarantee of ever welcoming him back. And even though it was worth it, out-witting Moriarty, hardly felt like a victory at all.

 

Of course, now that he was back, now that the bastard had returned too, it seemed like it all had almost been in vain. He supposed he did weaken the criminal web Jim had woven, and shook up the spider a bit when he took down his next in command. But, up to now, he had no reliable data in whether that would have a positive or negative influence in the situation at which he found himself then, for the criminal was already dangerous before, God knows what he could do when feeling vengeful.

 

_The file did not end there. It kept going, telling the story long after the criminal supposedly shot himself in the head, and he was “forced” to jump._ The detective had stood there looking down. Keeping someone at a preferable area so his plan could work. Talking false words to a phone to have the person on the other line believe him. He had to have the precise distance in which he would have a witness without blowing his cover, the exact words so said observer would act accordingly with a role he wasn’t even aware he was playing. And it really sickened Sherlock, having to do all those things, to calculate all those variables just so he could die. Because he shouldn’t, he wasn’t supposed to strive just so he could lie to John Watson.

 

The detective fell, and with it, whatever tiny belief he could ever have about miracles. It almost sort of felt like a relief, to come down rippling through the air. Because falling wasn’t actually, in and of itself, awful. The pain would only come whenever he hit that air mattress, and harsh reality would let him crash against its hard self. Not physical pain, but one that he knew to be more deadly, not only for him, but for many a people more. His bones wouldn’t break, and his heart wouldn’t stop beating, however, he was not falling alone, he was dragging down someone with him. And he somehow knew, that his suicide would not just “end” him, but it would kill them both. 

 

As he laid on the ground, and heard someone shout for him. A clever hand working its way towards his wrist searching for a pulse, for any indicator that his world wasn’t crashing down right in front of his eyes, Sherlock felt the touch singe his skin with guilt and shame. Because they would never question it, never even conjure up the possibility of it probably being a ruse. Because he would never do that to them, would he? He would never be such an arsehole. The detective smiled grimly at the fact that he had managed to out-do himself once again.

 

Because he couldn’t resist participating in the psychopath’s games, after all it was child’s play, right? He couldn’t stop himself from fanning those flames with the incorrect belief that he wouldn’t get burned. All because he chose to believe falling was just like flying.

 

_He closed the folder, and shoved it across the room. Every action he decided to make was less favorable than the last._ He had given everything he had, and he still have no answer as to how to defeat the horrible monster that would soon be striding in the room on the outside world beyond his mind palace. Many would open their stupid big mouths and comment that Sherlock had no direct obligation to stop him; he was not part of the army, ready to lay down their life for common good, neither was he the police, nor the government -even if he seemed to surround himself with their company- and he had no actual responsibility or duty to fulfill in taking him down. 

 

But everyone seemed to fail at remembering that even though Moriarty had killed, and arranged crimes long before himself was in business, he was the one who released the beast. It was him who gave the maniac something to fight against. Something to defeat, and made the world interesting. The world could be so dull if you had no contender to leave in the dust. And a consulting detective was all it was needed for a consulting criminal to feel like he should raise up his game. Make it big, and monstrous, and elegant; just so his enemy would know with who he was messing. He couldn’t deny it, the psychopath’s schemes had, admittedly, been scrumptious for the detective at first, so delicious they made him want to lick his fingers. However, once he realized the hostages were not arbitrary anymore, reality hit him like a bullet through the head. The moment Jim had his sniper trained on a semtex-vest wearing John, the games ceased to be amusing. 

 

_The flying file crashed against the wall and landed on top of a small chest. And no matter how hard he tried to remember, Sherlock had never before seen that coffer, let alone he recalled putting something inside it. He strode over and slowly kneeled on the worn-out carpet in front of it. The wood was carved perfectly, and as he traced his fingertips through the surface the material felt smooth beneath them. A soft knock corroborated what the detective had already deduced. The Chest could be soft but it was in now way fragile or_ empty _. Standing there, sturdy, menacing and unknown from its corner at the, otherwise familiar, chamber. The lock was efficiently closed and in its bottom there was a teeny-tiny hole in which a key would go and opened it easily. The only problem was that the musician did not have the key, and he doubted he would come across it easily inside his extensive space of information. Nevertheless, the case rumbled and vibrated when touched, and whatever it was that was inside there, it wanted out, and regrettably, the boffin couldn’t even fathom why._

 

_He took out his tools and began picking the lock. He had not even the slight idea if forcing an entry would even succeed inside his own brain, but it couldn’t hurt to try. After a few minutes, the detective was actually taken aback to realize it was working, the tumblers already giving way to the cleverly handled tools._

 

_He was not expecting it, it caught him unguarded. Not even the fact that he always left on eye open to reality when in a state of vulnerability, could make him anticipate what happened next. Just when Sherlock was about to unbolt it, a banging of a door on the outside stopped him in his tracks, clammed shut the lock, and violently dragged the detective out from his mind residence and back into the real world._

 

He felt as if he had been tossed from one dimension unto another. And the designerleather shoes he saw when he opened his eyes after having lost his balance and stumbled to the floor, made him curse at his luck that whichever demented parallel universe in which he found himself just had to have a consulting criminal waiting for him. “ _You can and have run from everything Sherlock._ ” A voice coming from his own head whispered -sounding suspiciously like none other than his big brother- “ _But here’s one thing you can’t out-run._ ” And it figures that even as a product of his own imagination, Mycroft was always right, the git. He had to face this head-on, and just hope that all his denied prayers wouldn’t fall on deaf ears.

 

“Well, my dear. Daddy’s home!” Jim shouted over-enthusiastically. Stuffing his hands on his pockets to appear calm in spite of the palpable giddiness on his speech. “I do believe is time for me to end what we started, don’t you think?” He questioned, and everyone knew he wasn’t expecting an answer. “It’s your last chance to prove to me how not-boring you are, sinner man.” he knelt and looked the detective straight in the eye. “And hope it is reason enough for me to spare you.” A wicked lopsided grin already manically forming across his wicked face. He regarded him one last time, and thenstood up. “It’s time for you to show me your value, Sherlock” Then he shouted to thin air: “Turn the music up, boys!”

 

_-“Oh, sinner man, where you gonna run to? All on that day?”-_

 


	7. Chapter 6: The Chastisement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chas•tise•ment: |CHasˈtīzmənt| noun.
> 
> To rebuke or reprimand severely to purify.

CHAPTER 6: THE CHASTISEMENT.

 

 

 

— _“Run to the rock, ‘Rock won’t you hide me?’ All on that day?”_ —

 

The celtic song was playing. Was _still_ playing. Was still playing after _two_ consecutive _hours_. Moriarty had left after the music had begun, and had decided it would be alright if he left it running to fill the consuming “ _void_ ” of his absence. But of course, not before he managed to get the brunette riled up and shaking with rage. The criminal always seemed to know the exact combination of words to get under Sherlock’s skin.

 

“You see, this treatment is really inventive,” He had explained while waving his taser at the crouching boffin. He had been shocked in the forearm for insulting Jim’s idiotic ways for punishment, there’s an eighty three percent chance he may have spoken too hastily. “And I think you might find the effort of designing it specially for you, flattering.” The flirty smile quickly getting old. “I know it doesn’t makes sense for you as of right now. But don’t worry though, at the end of the day you’re the man of all the answers,” One could wrap up the taunting tone and play with it like a bouncing balloon, if only the consulting detective had access to a needle. “I’m sure you’ll get there eventually. After all, I _do_ believe in Sherlock Holmes.” If it wasn’t for the fact that he had no leverage nor any desire to die in there whatsoever, the detective would have liked to weld that mouth shut so it never had the ability to spill such poison ever again. 

 

Teasing about his intellect he could manage; and he was prepared to hear any aspersion or faux-intentioned praise the psychopath had to offer. But for him to use those words was blasphemy; mocking that single phrase which had assembled all the tiny pieces of his memory and reputation back carefully and glued them together with hope and devotion after the criminal had shattered down his world, and his life, and his mind as if they were made of weak and breakable glass, was the lowest insult anyone could ever have given him. That campaign was unexpected, and honestly the best thing that could have happened to the lonely undercover consulting detective while he was on the run, once he caught wind of it. It had given him purpose when he was overwhelmed, and direction while he thought himself lost. A loaf of bread to a man dying of hunger. And by using that group of words, James was not only diminishing all of its meaning, but was also ridiculing John’s loyalty, and if there was something which the boffin could not stand, was someone trying to belittle anything his “only” friend has ever done in his favour. 

 

And then the criminal departed, disappearing into the darkness. Almost like a mirage that’s one second here and the next is just smoke and magic, a great big cloud of deceit which leaves you wondering whether it was even real in the first place. He abandoned the detective, leaving him strained, stretched taut like a violin string waiting to snap at any moment. He fisted both of his hands, tight and dug his nails on his palms. The wire was over-tensed and fury ran hot throughout his entire being. Outrageous mockery of one of the single good things that has ever happened to him was simply unacceptable. Retaliation was not possible, nor was it really wise to try and take the rightful revenge he desired. Of course _“wise”_ was starting to lose its meaning inside that restraining cage in which they were holding him. His captor was quickly proving savagery was a much better road to take than submission, but he refused to give up. Couldn’t try to even touch a hair in Moriarty’s head as it would instantly result in his own demise and he had promised once that he wouldn’t leave his doctor behind ever again; not if he could help it. 

 

He couldn’t even consider to fail at his word, to break that vow, he knew he probably  — by the world’s common standards — did not deserve any of the people and freedom he had as a part of his life. He recognised his actions were often nothing but despicable for the society in which he lived, and he refused to set a-drifting the one who grounded him so many times before. All of them, actually. He knew he was prepared to endure the inferno his enemy had prepared for him, if only to keep the nigh-celestial beings; for he was nothing but a shell before them, a hollowed out man not knowing how to love; ignoring how to even breathe. Stumbling around with a heavy blindfold tied before his eyes, and wandering with just a poor stick as guidance. With a massive intellect, and vast abilities, but without anyone to share them, no one who truly cared. Until that obtrusive piece of cloth was removed from his eyes rather forcefully, and he was never the same again. Moriarty could take away his ability to fly. He could even rip his wings apart, but he would never rid him of the one who sewed them to his back.

 

— _“But the rock cried out, ‘I can’t hide you!’”_ —

 

The echo the song made on his ears and around the room was both, numbing and piercing, simultaneously. Threatening paradox to drive him to insanity with its continuous droning which just _wouldn’t stop_. The camera above him made a slight twitch, adjusting its angle of sight towards the boffin and blinked its tiny green light once, almost as in daring defiance. 

 

The scientist never assumed; nor he believed in coincidences. But this time he was just going to pretend it wasn’t deliberated, just this once.

 

* * *

 

 

After a few hours, the brunette started noticing certain changes in the temperature on the room. He no longer felt that slight chill on his bare toes that had been present during his stay at Moriarty’s quarters. One which he had already learned to ignore at the best of cases. There was a bit of a warmer atmosphere all around his being, and despite of liking the idea of not being constantly worrying at how cold it was  — him being used to the warmth of his coat and the hearth at Baker Street — he didn’t have a good feeling about it. Something seemed suspiciously _off_.

 

Surely Moriarty had heightened the temperature on his captive environment. Which was admittedly a remarkable job, since the boffin could not place a single air conditioning device inside the room. So the method should be something far cleverer than that. The reason was mysterious too. He clearly was going to use the heat to affect him. But it all seemed a bit too tedious, too predictable. Too so unlike Moriarty that he doubted that hot environment was the final goal.

 

The time crept by surprisingly quick. As the heat was slowly climbing, crawling its way up in the scale, Sherlock considered how much punishment would he be forced to endure at the criminal’s hand, and whether he would be able to take it as far as it took for someone to find him, or another opportunity of escape to present itself  — which he was near sure it never would — . However, if he was a genius, a master in themes of crime and deceit, and had learned anything he could from the corrupt, he was sure he could predict Jim’s moves at least well enough to prepare himself for whatever was ahead. Moriarty was more likely to play mind games, and to try and tear the seams of his psyche to watch him squirm. If he could prepare his brain and body to what they would hurl at him, he could succeed in averting them from really harming his consciousness. If he stayed detached and distant, and introvert himself unto his Mind Palace he should be okay. Or so he believed.

 

— _“So, I ran to the river. It was boiling.”_ —

 

He positioned himself in a laying position. Placed his hands on his chest and crossed his legs. If he was to await chastisement, he might as well do it while on a comfortable posture. He considered for a moment taking his shirt off, to avoid storing heat inside it, but decided against since he knew the criminal would never let him live it down, and he really was in a dire enough situation that he couldn’t afford to give the madman any ideas. He opted instead to just pop open a few buttons and rolling up his sleeves and trouser hems. 

 

His clever eyes darted around the room, and there was utter silence, and complete lack of new data in which to bask his senses. The only shifting aspect was the climate condition. Growing warm and hot in seconds. He was exhausted, fatigued of being kept in the same place for so long. Stagnation was rendering him irritable, and he could feel the thick feverishness start to settle on his chest in response of his loathing at being trapped in there and longing to go home. Or maybe it was just the heat.

 

His psyche would be the perfect resort in these cases. Away from all the binds his body experienced. Physics and biology tying him down, telling him in hushed voices he needed to eat, and to think, and to cool down before he managed to scorch himself to death in that inferno. He refused to listen, for wishing, even needing, was of no use; Moriarty would make sure he burned until he ceased if he so desired or until he got bored. Whichever came first.

 

With a mild hyperthermical mind, he started to paw at the strings of the coherent thoughts he saw running around in his brain. The flashbacks had ceased their appearances, and even though they scared the wits out of him, Sherlock longed to have that information; the gap in the detective’s memory from before he was abducted was a concern of highest priority. His mind had never failed him like that, and he felt that, in order to understand how this had really come to be, he needed to know when he was taken, and what was he doing prior. That soft but irritating itch in the back of his head was ever-consuming, ever-present, and you know how they say that all which worries you, masters you. He was rather intent on keeping his intellect about, in case he needed to choke a consulting criminal with it. 

 

He was fairly certain he had not drunk a single drop of what they passed as water in that desolated place for a while. Nobody had bothered to come and force his jaw open in order for him to take down a few gulps since Jim walked out the door, and that had been approximately a complete two days in the past. So, at long last the plan was coming to light: Moriarty planned to heat him up and dehydrate him. His first opinion on the matter was “dull”, but after a few hours of consideration and pondering the possibilities he realised how “not dull” it was. The risk of dying was really high, and the process was torturous, uncomfortable and terrible for trains of thought.

 

— _“‘Sea, won’t you hide me?’ I said.”_ —

 

His head began to ache, and he felt like floating, but not in the good sort of sense as it was with drugs; but in a more distant way. His blood pressure was decreasing rapidly. His once non-existent heart already battling with the warmth to maintain normal circulation to all his limbs. But it probably wasn’t working, since it was beating with a force he never experienced before, a staccato of pounding inside his chest, stoutly giving its all to keep his machine of a body going, forgoing his mind completely. 

 

And that was the worst part. Having to leave your best weapon behind just so you could concentrate on the sole task of saying alive, no matter the cost. His thirst was quickly smoking up the hollows of his eyelids, feeling them with fog; blurring everything around him. He could barely distinguish the music anymore  —which was the only upside in the situation—. Dazing his perception, and making his limbs sluggish, like quicksand adhering to his skin. As dehydration kicked in, there was no liquid left on his organism to cool his body temperature; He tried to place all his cognitive activity in the fact of sweating, as if he could manage to make it happen just by pure will. Which proved to be impossible.

 

Moriarty had one of his goons leave a bottle on the inside of the cellar. Tiny, and seemingly innocent; looking intimidating in its minuscule glass compartment. For it was the substance contained in it which made Sherlock’s _contracted-blood-vessel-blue_ skin crawl just by the sight of it. Made his nauseous metabolism want to return whatever little was inside it and push the repulsion past his swollen tongue and through his dry mouth. He stared at it in disbelief. 

 

It seems the criminal was giving him an alternative. A way out of the utter suffering in which he now found his body. If he took a gulp out of that bottle surely the heat would stop. It would cease enveloping him immediately and leave him alone at once. He might even let him go, and get back to his old life; to cases and tea and John. And it was almost tempting, to have a guarantee that he would be able to piss off his brother once again, if only for a short while. But as everything with the consulting criminal it would come with a price. Laced with a clock glued to his back, ticking incessantly and tirelessly up to an  —even if calculable— unknown deadline. Yet he could not give himself up the despair like that, just taking the easy route. It was not who he was, prepared to do anything; he would not conform with having it back for a few moments. He was aiming, fighting for full custody of the rains of his life, and he would be damned if he saw that sort of authority fall in the hands of the psychopath. He had something to live for, he would bear the _“how”_. 

 

He eyed the vial of methyl mercury with new resolve. He wouldn’t give up. However, that didn’t mean it wasn’t still _oh-so-very-tempting_. 

 

— _“‘Sinner man, sea’ll be a-bleeding.”_ —

 

 

* * *

 

 

In case it hadn’t been clear. In case there was any doubt about it: James Moriarty is a very cruel man.

 

Of course, everyone already knew that; but never to that magnitude. Sherlock had never considered the height of ruthless and cold-blooded behaviour of which his captor was capable. He had an idea, an estimation; great enough to cause any lesser mortal to cringe, and still he somehow seemed to have underestimated the lengths the criminal was willing to walk to cause pain and misery unto another human being. Because being tortured, manipulated, and dried out was one thing; but to use hope against you, that signifies a deeper, more atrocious skill.

 

It had been a few moments after, that might as well been have been years, for the detective had an unrealistic sense of time since the heat had begun, when the criminal returned. The sound of the door opening rang loud across the room, dancing a delicate counter-point foxtrot with the celtic music already playing. 

 

After being trapped for so long, the days started to blur together and the minutes felt as if to drag away slowly, a second felt like a terrible eternity, and a full day was done before he knew it; he was aware that this phenomenon was caused by his captive mind. It had un-learnt to measure the passing of events, and in his feverish state his life before this hell appeared to be un-glueing itself from reality, up to the point where he couldn’t be sure if some tiny details had happened at all. It was terrifying.

 

When the criminal saw him on the floor, miserably delivering shallow breaths, his mouth broke into a genuine grin: he seemed to actually be glad of watching him almost squirm on the concrete trying to somehow find a way to cool down, which proved futile.

 

— _“So I ran to the Lord: ‘Please, hide me.’”_ —

 

“God, it’s hot in here.” Moriarty stated as he tucked one finger inside the collar of his own perfectly-tailored dress shirt as if to separate its warmth from his neck. “It feels like hell.” The word play was deliberate, the detective could have bet his skull,  —not just the one on the mantle— his flat, and his sticky right hand that it was thought throughoutly beforehand, and still not feel a bit anxious about the risk of losing. The psychopath knelt down and scooped the minuscule bottle at the centre of the room. 

 

“I see you haven’t taken up my offer.” He said not at all surprised, like he already knew the boffin was going to decline. The detective suspected its only purpose was to give him a temptation, a token of a possibility of just giving up, of taking the easy route out. Even if he did not, in fact, accept it, it would be tormenting enough to put him on edge. 

 

Beside the fact that he could not even fathom movement as a possibility thanks to his heat-ridden brain, being on the floor did bring a few advantages on its own, for example: it set him at just the right height to notice the mud on the criminal’s sole. “And I see one of your men betrayed you yet again today,” he said in the most petulant voice he could muster out of his dehydrated throat. “You should keep your pets on a tighter leash, or you’ll run out eventually.” 

 

Moriarty, after regaining composure, twirled the flask in his fingers and raised a groomed eyebrow at him in curiosity. He was clearly amused the detective still kept trying to gain some delusion of control, no matter how far sunk in quicksand he was. “I shall take your advise into consideration, after all, you know a lot more about mindless loyal lapdogs than anyone.” He smirked, showing Sherlock he had walked right into the trap again. He was beginning to seriously consider cutting off his tongue to prevent it from giving him away so easily. Treacherous muscular hydrostat.

 

“I should find myself one of those. Specially since you killed the last one.” The detective allowed himself to squirm a bit at that. He would never regret what happened in those two years. Although they were things he had had to do, choices he had to make, decisions he had to take, that he didn’t particularly want; he did, because they meant something so much better could stay in their stead. That doesn’t mean he was any less ashamed of them. “One that caters at my every whim without asking too much questions.”

 

And that’s where everyone got it wrong. Even a criminal master mind genius like Moriarty had misunderstood it. They all believed John was some mindless creature following his every command and never giving it as much as a second thought. Not being able to function on his own, but what not one of them seemed to understand was that if John Watson was ever to assist him in anything it was because he wanted to. His friend was never shy of telling him off if he was doing something wrong, or if he believed his behaviour was beyond appalling. — _“That’s not fair, Sherlock. When have I ever failed at doing something you asked of me? I just want to know if you’re bloody sure about this because you’re acting like a fucking stubborn child and I can’t take it anymore!”_ —.

 

Now, this time he knew exactly who was saying these words to him, even if he failed to reminisce why exactly they were delivered. He supposed it could have been one of the many times the detective had been unsuccessful at trying to keep up with the expectations of what a normal attitude would entail, but the clear distress in the blogger’s voice let him know it was no random row, this one had deeper meaning and he still couldn’t fathom why he would ever banned a conversation of such importance from his mind palace. 

 

The memory left him a bit overwhelmed, and that coupled with the already settled hyperthermia was making it difficult for him to keep focused on the present. His eyelids felt heavy and his warmth-addled mind made him rather delirious. Up to the point where he couldn’t actually recall when exactly did he change positions from the floor up to his knees, but there he was, sitting on his ankles and resting his two hands —which felt extraordinarily heavy— on his lap. Whatever the reason, Moriarty was never going to let him live this down.

 

— _“But he said, ‘Go to the devil.’”_ —

 

“Look at that! You got on your knees before I even had to ask, good boy.” Jim said patting his shoulder, which the boffin quickly expunged from his reach in disgust. “I believe you have earned a bit of a reward.” He exclaimed with mirth to one of his companions. For a second the musician thought it was going to be drugs again and panicked. He wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to keep a strong will in the present situation, he felt as if his brain was being drained slowly and replaced with a slow and gooey substance that clogged out every synapse inside it.

 

However, when he saw that to which the criminal was referring his heart lift up a whole centimetre. Bouncing inside his ribcage ready to tear through flesh and splayitself out in front of them from hope. It was the best and most glorious sight the detective had seen in months: a bottle of water.

 

Certainly, the bottle was half empty, and it looked lukewarm, but after the scorching torture he had endured, the detective was ready to take whatever the criminal could give him now. One of Moriarty’s assistants passed him the plastic container and the criminal took an almost painfully long time to unscrew the tap. Deliberately making Sherlock eye the object in his possession with longing, drawing out every reaction of vulnerability he could. The silver-gazed man knew exactly what the Irish man desired, and he was aware that, in silently pleading for a little mercy from his captor, he was relinquishing the precious control he had gripped so tightly before. But inside his slightly drugged perception caused by the suffocating heat, it did not seem like a bad bargain. He was of course, vaguely conscious in the back of his mind that he would come to regret said decision later.

 

He knew that as long as he could impede Jim’s antics from permeating into his brain, he was still the master of his own life. His mind would be his own for as long as he could keep the criminal from snatching his free will of thought. And if showing a bit of susceptibility was what was needed for him to get through this dark waters in which he was swimming, he would do it; after all, it was really not that big of a deal, or so he kept telling himself.

 

The consulting criminal poured out a little water unto the cap, up to half of it and forcefully grabbed the kneeled man’s jaw. He squeezed down until the mandible was separated from its upper partner as far as it could go and resumed to emptying the liquid from the small container unto the detective’s dried and swelled tongue. The few drops that fell unto his mouth felt like the best thing he had ever experienced, and he realised he may never again be as grateful for a sip of water than he was in that moment. 

 

The shorter man smiled wickedly at the ecstatic expression that painted the whole of the musician’s face, as if he was waiting for the punchline of a secret joke to be delivered; and as the detective closed his eyes to savour this incredible bliss a second cap was being thrown into his pliant and expecting mouth. He was getting to drink the whole of the half-bottle worth of invigorating elixir and it truly felt like christmas!

 

Everything was as good as it could be for him, which was hence the ideal moment for things to turn stale. While the curly haired man waited for a third dose, the criminal withdrew the cap and shook it to get rid of the remaining wetness. It took an embarrassing long moment for Sherlock to realise what was happening and when he un-shut his eyes to try and analyse the situation, James was pouring the remaining water unto to over-heated floor. The liquid evaporated because of the temperature so quickly that it barely left a tiny and shallow pool of accumulation ready to turn into steam in a second’s notice. Faith dematerialising before his eyes, and he raised his head to look at the man towering over him. A mixture of astonishment, plea and hatredcrossing the boffin’s expression as he scrutinised him. 

 

He never should’ve let himself believe that something akin to good could ever happen to him in that place, not if Moriarty had any say in it. An specimen ready to deliver an innocent and false sip of water just so the boffin could really experience the full height of the chastisement after. Giving him a second to calm his thirst only to rid him of it all over again. Staring at the opportunity of relief already drying in the pavement and knowing it could have possibly been everything he needed, but forever denied of it. That is the reason Sherlock Holmes won’t let himself hope, it was a useless, tedious thing to do which only ever amounted in even more misery. He wouldn’t be making that mistake ever again.

 

— _“I ran to the devil, he was waiting.”_ —

 

* * *

 

 

It appeared that Moriarty really wanted him alive to answer for his sins, for he relented his possessive grasp at the heat punishment and set the temperature down to below-normal again. He also let him have a whole two _liters_ of fresh and deliciously cool water, all in one gulp. After the incident with the capfuls of false hope, he had been left to rot in his own sticky sweat which was already drying on his skin and leaving a heavy quality to his limbs, for quite a few hours; he was worried a heat stroke was approaching if the torture didn’t end promptly. But was finally shown a sliver of mercy and allowed what was the most significant relief he had had at his entrapment in that cellar. 

 

It didn’t mean the situation was any better, though. It could actually be said it was verging on worse. As a reprimand for failing to take what the criminal considered _“a bit of heat”_ , Moriarty decided that sleeping was too much of a luxury for such a disobedient prisoner. He arranged for substantial luminaries to be placed all around the chamber. Bright like sunlight, and as white and blinding as hospital sterile reflectors. There was not an inch of darkness in the room, except for the shadows casted from his very body, leaving their entrapment inside of the detective and inhabiting instead at the wall behind him; not a bit of shade even within his own soul, and Sherlock suddenly felt nude. Exposed. As if his mind had been stripped bare and every squirming thought was being scrutinised, and poked, and prodded. And it could never help that Jim had decided that every time he closed his eyes for more than a second one of his mindless brutes would shock him with the criminal’s favourite toy. 

 

This had been his situation for three days, seven hours and twenty-two minutes; and it was horrible. He had gone without sleep in a case before, for just a bit less than that —shy for four hours and seventeen minutes— but adrenaline always played an important factor while on the hunt, and being left alone with his thoughts and the threat of a mildly painful electric charge was straining him more than he cared to admit. He had given up on talking with dignity hours ago, his motor skills had started failing a while back, and he was somehow sure someone had painted his eyelashes with lead when he wasn’t looking; which goes to show how compromised his mental capabilities were from tiredness. 

 

He never knew he could ever feel so exhausted. So completely drained as if moving his eyes a few degrees would cause him that much suffering. He just wished he could somehow buy his way out of this, since the hallucinations were bound to arrive at any moment now, and if there’s something the detective can not bear, is not being able to trust in his own senses.

 

— _“Run from the light, the Devil’s gonna see you.”_ —

 

“You have to fight it, Sherlock.” Moriarty’s voice boomed around the room and the detective turned his head around as quickly as the surprise would allow him. He never heard the criminal enter, and Jim being able to sneak up on him was never a comforting thought.

 

“And what if I refuse? What then?” He asked challengingly. His current blue gaze cutting through everything his sight could get. “What would you do? Torture me? That ship seems to have sailed, don’t you think?” He raised his chin, and stared directly into Moriarty’s eyes. “Kill me? But that would be too boring, wouldn’t it?” Speech and cognitive process was the most difficult thing at his situation, but his fatal nemesis was there, and looking like a crumpled up paper lying on the floor was just not an option.

 

“You appear to have forgotten that if I had the means to get a hold of _you_ , of all people; it wouldn’t be difficult to snatch one of your petty dear friends.” He smirked as he gesture for the other men in the room to leave them.

 

“Threatening to hurt them again? How unimaginative.” He managed to choke out. His voice was clearly resenting its lack of use in the last days, and it was too much to hope for something to ease the incessant throbbing inside his skull. He was certain he could hear over the music, his hair growing slowly, painfully lazy. He was worried that if he started listening now, he would never stop again.

 

“Exactly how much torture would you say your old landlady could endure, hm?” At those projectiles, he felt his chest being shattered like a thousand pieces of glass. 

 

“No.” He whispered. Moriarty was _not_ making Mrs. Hudson, the woman who has always been like a mother to him, go through everything he had just because he made a mistake. This war was between him and the criminal, and this time he would make sure nobody got caught up in the crossfire.

 

“Do you think she will be disappointed? Knowing you could have spared her all the pain and just chose not to? I know I would be.” And for him it was not a simple bullet through his abdomen, it was a hollow-point threat that made him want to throw up blood. An actual hole in his lungs would be less painful than the implications the criminal was presenting. “Or maybe that pathologist of yours, I would surely enjoy seeing her again, for old time’s sake.”

 

“You’re not touching any of them.” And Sherlock meant it, if he ever meant anything on his dubious life, it was this. He would die —for real this time— before he allowed the psychopath to torture his friends just because they were loyal to him. Moriarty had worked past Molly last time, however, on this occasion she was in too deep to be overlooked. She was one of the few people in the world who accepted him for who he is, and he refused to repay her help and support with misfortune. 

 

“Or perhaps I should pay a visit to your loyal DI. How many fingers do you think one needs to keep a job as a detective for the Yard?” As he said this, he played with his ten fingers as if visualising what it would be like to be one digit short. The detective though, was doing something completely different with his own hands: he was clutching his temples tightly, just trying to stop the swirling information for making up an imagine and keeping it printed on his memory. The last thing he needed then was a gory scenario of the important people in his life at the mercy of this maniac etched upon his mind.

 

“I’m telling you, Moriarty: I’m not playing this game again.” He knew he had no leverage whatsoever, but if Jim planned on torturing his friends, he also had nothing left to lose.

 

“I should probably gather them three, and tie them up to a train-track. Like those old movies.” 

 

“Stop it!” He was obviously aware of what he was attempting. He was just trying to rile him up, but the musician couldn’t deny it was extremely effective, sentiment was truly a defect found on the losing side, and somehow being proven right had never felt so miserably. 

“Or maybe, I’ll just be more subtle; more cunning. With the sort of occupations two of them have and the age of the other, it would be surprisingly easy for them to get infected with something. Something lethal.” The grin he bore was more than a mockery for Sherlock. It was joy, complete and pure joy of causing harm to something the detective held dear; it was sick. “Would you like that? If they faded away slowly?” He asked, as if he actually needed an answer to such a ridiculous query.

 

When the detective didn’t reply, he seemed to be truly offended. He slapped him with the back of his hand. Not strong enough to leave a mark, yet not so weak as to pass unnoticed by the curly-haired man. It was certainly enough to cause him some physicalpain. “I asked you a question!” He shouted.

 

“I didn’t know you required an answer.” He retorted. Dignity, even if it was just a sliver of it, was the only thing he had left in there, he was dammed if he let Moriarty snatch this out of him too. The criminal made a feral growl and prepared to strike him again when the younger man chose to actually form a coherent response. “No, I wouldn’t like that.” He whispered.

 

“Or maybe I could bring the british government to play for a bit.” 

 

“You’re not dragging anyone else into this! Do you hear me, spider? No one!” He yelled. A desperate wail, as if raising his voice would somehow make the words any truer. 

 

“Imagine if I brought him to you, and made you watch as I slit his throat.” And he could imagine it, clear as crystal. His brother knelt on the floor, with the criminal behind him holding a blade. The ginger man watching him with an stoic mask that said more than any facial expression ever would. The fear apparent on his lack of presence, and as the maniac dragged the razor through the skin on his neck, deep enough to be fatal, his big brother faced his last moments with dignity and courage. Sherlock was not sure how he would react to that. If he would loose his mind, or if shock would seize him for a moment instead. But he was sure of what would happen next: he would kill Moriarty with his bare hands.

 

He wanted to say this last thing. However, as a substitute, he said: “You are not touching my brother.”

 

“Although I do wonder, whatever you will do without your _First Mate My?”_ And it couldn’t be. It was impossible for the criminal to know that. To posses that particular information. The only one who knew about his secret pet-name for his brother wasthe british government himself. He had given it to him when they started playing pirates once he was old enough to hold a wooden sword and Mycroft had yet to grow up to be a meddling pompous git. This wasn’t among the information they had agreed on revealing to Moriarty, and Sherlock could be certain that his brother would never betray him as that. He knew the umbrella-carrying arse would considering giving away secret military plans before divulging any intimate detail about his childhood. Mycroft could be a nosy bastard, but he _was_ his brother, and they both were really important for each other, albeit unseeingly.

 

“How do you know about that?” He asked, because he couldn’t fathom the real track he could have follow to ever arriving at that knowledge.

 

“You always seem to forget: I know you. I know every little thing about you. I am you, and you are me. And without me, you’re nothing.” This hit the detective square in the jaw, because it was true. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, he could never find true dissimilarities between them, and it frightened him. He had thought that by never thinking about it, it would maybe make it less true, but Moriarty had hurled reality at him, and he feared he would never get rid of it. 

 

“So what do you say? Will you do it? Don’t make me strap the heretic’s fork to your neck. It makes hell of a mess.” He mused, and the brunette couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed the small medieval torture device on the criminal’s hands until now. Sleep deprivation surely was messing with his brain more than he had realised. It was often used so prisoners would confessed, would fess up valuable information. Sherlock pitied anyone who had been made to use it, but then again, their torture had at least had a purpose. A horrible one, of course, but a purpose nonetheless. Instead, his hellish stay was a sentence with no known resolution, nor even guarantee that there would be one, and all to entertain a murdering psychopath; so yes, he won in the misfortune scale.

 

He had no desire of doing it, of risking it. He just wanted to sleep, and to go home. But still, he also saw no appeal at being pierced in the chin and chest, so the former was the lesser of the two evils. With a deep breath he steeled his shoulders, straighten up his back and spoke defyingly. “I’ll do it.”

 

“Good boy.” And the criminal smiled.

 

— _“Don’t make a sound, the Devil’s gonna hear you.”_ —

 

Agony within the soul is much more corrosive than any pain physical suffering could ever begin to bring, and as the hours flew by he could feel all his humanity, all that he once was being ruptured part by part, bit by bit; only to leave the most basic and raw form of himself there was. Where even his own name was out of reach, where darkness had consumed all possible reminiscence of old memories and he was left in utter emptiness. 

 

His drowsy state was something to be feared, because hallucinations had come and gone long ago. He was just mindlessly drifting through a foggy daze, just another bundle of atoms trying hard to keep his body form breaking; like if they’d grown a mind of their own, knowing the detective had lost his. The reflectors casted light upon him, making everything have a paint-like quality. Colours staining a perfect black canvas he couldn’t scape. 

 

He could feel the fatigue trying to claw its way in. And he put all of his remaining energy to work on a sole purpose: not falling asleep. But destiny is not always so indulging, as each second ticked by, he was finding it harder to just not plummet to the floor defeated by exhaustion. It doesn’t matter how great a mind he had, you can only deprive your body of its needs for so long, and as that thought ran through his head, he fell his eyes finally give out and turn everything to black, this was the last thing he thought.

 

Next thing he knew, he was being woken by the very last voice he wanted to hear. He realised he had been dreaming of being back at Baker Street, a nice cuppa being clutched in one of his hands. Of course when the criminal’s lilting mockery rang through the air he felt the vision crash into a million shattered pieces.

 

“Oh, look how adorable the slumbering detective looks.” Sherlock scratched his eyes trying to adjust to the light, right then all he could make out was Jim’s silhouette against the stark light. “Although, I do believe we had a deal.” Like a bullet to the back of his head, reality struck him as if fallen from heaven itself. He may have just made the biggest mistake of his life.

 

“No! I didn’t- I won’t-” He fumbled, trying to find the right combination of words that would make his captor forget about the punishment he had threatened to deliver if he were ever found resting. 

 

“I wonder which of them will be. Which will hit the hardest.” He rambled as his paced the small chamber. He had to do something, he couldn’t let this happen.

 

“No! I- You can’t!” He yelled, and oddly enough he felt tears start to form in his eyes, he was probably delivering the show Moriarty wanted, but he couldn’t be arsed to care right at the moment, because probably one of them would die if he didn’t do something and it would all be his fault.

 

“Maybe-” The spider started but was cut off by a demanding boffin.

 

“Moriarty, listen to me!” Despair painted each word, and the consulting criminal will probably bask at Sherlock’s begging. But this was important, he would plead on his knees if he had to.

 

“Oh, I’m listening Sherlock. I’ve been listening for a long time.” And the curly haired man knew it was true, James was a shadow, following his every move.

 

“No! You can’t! I’ll do anything.” He looked at the brown-eyed man’s face. Searching for a mercy he was certain he would not find. Yelling like a man possessed, and he supposed he was, possessed by grief at least. But what more could he do at the moment? 

 

“I believe you would.” The cruel man replied, and there was something so final about it that made the curly-haired man’s tears stream down his face in hopeless pleading. When breath had failed him, and any other tactic had proven futile he whispered: “Please.” And it sounded as exactly what is was: A surrender.

 

“Haul him up boys,” The irish accent commanded to the three other men in the room. “And bring the water.”

 

— _“When you dig in the ground, the Devil won’t catch you.”_ —

 

* * *

 

 

It was ridiculous. How Moriarty paced and bounced around as if he were leading a parade. To the room there entered a flood of important subjects which demanded all attention at once. A psychopath’s sort of carriage, the murdering analogy of balloons and the soldiers, all lined up to start their route. Obviously someone would have to be really daft if they were to believe the consulting criminal would actually decide to bring a real procession to this secluded room just for the boffin to gape at, the only way that would be possible is if said procession were carrying a casket, a very specific casket, for a very particular corpse.

 

But still, the joy and the merriment were shinning like fractured light-beams as they are seen when underwater. The surreal sort of hazed sight impending him to see some of the details, the picture lost something when experienced through tired spectacles. He could still discern a handful of thugs and barely noticed when two of them grabbed at his hands, and other two restrained his feet. The touch was ghosting above Sherlock’s skin, and it felt as if they weren’t actually having any real contact with his body. It made him remember something he had learned very young, his grasp for highly advanced science at full gear; the atoms never really touched. All the particles in his body had an _empty_ space between him and this threat. Ironically enough, this _nothing_ was the only thing onto which he could hold. 

 

— _“Sun, won’t you hide me?”_ —

 

He saw the buckets being hauled into the chamber, and for a second he panicked. Thinking the board would follow them entering. It didn’t. And a breath of relief floated across the narrow room, released from his own lungs. The alleviation of his worries didn’t last long, though. As his lower extremities were sunk in a large container with frozen water and he was drenched from head to toe. Sleeping outside in the snow would have definitely been warmer than this.

 

His shirt clung to his body and made the heavy sensation impossible to escape. Lately he had been feeling as if he weighted a thousand pounds more, even if he probably was skinnier than he had ever been. 

 

The most peculiar thing was that the criminal did not utter a word although this procedure. And it made the curly-haired man wonder why in the world would Jim choose to be silent when there was finally something to brag about. An agreement, an exchange of him for his friends. And it somehow was what kept him going, kept him a bit sane. Right from the start this was what the criminal had wanted. To take his world, his own sense of self and crumble them apart until every memory of them ever being something but ruined would be banished from all thought. Moriarty had planned to strip him of all dignity. Nobody had said it, it was ignored by most; but both, criminal and detective, knew he had already succeeded.

 

The boffin took the comeuppance as best as he was allowed. Bearing what he could and trying to discard all frosted sprites in-habituating his Mind Palace. His already pale skin turning an alarming shade of blue anyone would have probably be scared to watch. The Irish man’s tyranny extending its way into even his deepest conceptual rooms. A cold and hypothermic body and brain are not the best equipped to fight against such ruthless and relentless force. And James was pushing in hard, along with all of his troops.

 

— _“Sinnerman, sun’ll be a-freezing.”_ —

 

“I’m sorry it had to be like this.” The lilting voice floated. He was standing straight ahead of him, clearly not at all regretful of his actions, that faked remorse was just another slap in the face.

 

“N-no.” Sherlock stuttered out. “You ar-re not.” He responded as he looked down at his fingernails, purple as the dusk. “Y-you are r-real-ly not.” A fit of coughs stroke him and their little chat had to be paused briefly. The psychopath just smiled as if he had been caught. Clearly pleased that both consultants were on the same page about his humanity, at least they both knew he was a monster.

 

The liquid falling from above him triggered an unexpected memory. He recalled being out in the rain. Scarf gone and arms bloodied. He did not knew what had happened, but he just knew he had to get somewhere. Desperately. And he just couldn’t. Then everything went black and the little touch of heavenly-brought gift was gone as fast as it came. 

 

The lack of answers regarding his actions before all of this really started were limited to say the least, and he just wanted to know what the hell had happened. He knew this was not normal deleting, he did not choose to forget this things, apparently his brain just _did_ , and he couldn’t be angrier about it. He could deduce his mind was blocking something, something important. And if he had trained his consciousness well, it was for his own good. 

 

But he just desired to know. That way he could maybe have a better notion of what his situation was, and what options were available. He decided that he would make sure to figure it out, no matter the consequences.He’ll keep pushing the dam, even if that meant it would break, and the rushing water would come crashing down and flood each of his cavities. He didn’t care, not even if he drowned. Because sometimes, something just has to give.

 

The boffin just wanted to scape, to run and keep running until not even his own shadow had a chance to catch him. To unpin and unglue all the angst and turmoil that had him chained to the ground like an iron ball. But the song just kept droning on and on and on and he couldn’t stand it one more second. Still the water was making its way down, and it felt like lead.

 

“You must be quite cold by now.” And with a gesture of his left hand he commanded his associates to stop torturing him for now. They put the buckets down and stepped back. Sherlock was expecting —hoping— they would let him out of the freezing container; however, they just chuckled and scrambled to the other side of the room. 

 

The criminal walked across the floor and retrieved an item from a bag. “I’ll let you out of the tub-” He said running the smooth fabric through his fingertips. “I’ll even let you warm up,” He stretched the clothing and displayed it for the detective, so his shivering senses could recognise what it was. “If you wear this.” 

 

“N-no.” He tried for threatening, but his helpless stuttering made it impossible to deliver the word with the right intonation. His treacherous anatomy and low temperature brain making him sound like a wet and trembling fool, which he supposed was his default state this days.

 

“Come on.” Moriarty whined. “It’s your only hope now.” The boffin refused to believe that. He’d rather turn into a human frozen pop-sickle than to let the psychopath put a straight jacket on him. He shook his head as best as he could, and prayed that someone will come and help him, he couldn’t give up now, not when there were still so many things that depended on him.

 

— _“Where were you when you ought-a been praying?”_ —

 

“J-john is goin-ng to find me-e.” He pushed through lips that quivered with every intake of air. Making his deepest faith known. “A-and when he does, I-I wouldn’t wan-nt to be y-you.” He glared at James and his meant-for-the-flies lot. 

 

“Oh, Johnny-boy! That’s right.” His body language turning into cheerful quickly as a switch, like he had just given him that for which he was waiting all of this time. “I’m surprised you — of all people — are blindly relying on him to save you.” He took several steps closer till he was standing two feet away from him, and crouched down to eye-level. “You know he can’t do that.”

 

Sherlock couldn’t believe that Jim still underestimated John this much. “H-he’s perfectly capa-able of-”

 

“No, no, no, no, no. That’s not what I mean.” The consulting criminal interrupted hastily. “He’s not going to, you see.” He replied, talking slowly as if he were trying to make a child understand. “Don’t tell me a great mind like yours doesn’t remember. Sure you must.”

 

What in the hell was the Irishman talking about. What was there to remember? “Remem-mber w-what?” 

 

“Then again, I guess it was a bit traumatic for you.” The madman just kept talking and ignored the younger man completely. The detective knew he had been heard, he just chose not to answer. “Maybe you just decided not to remember it. Oh! This is unexpected, and here I thought you knew.”

 

Sherlock was positively and actively panicking, wondering what was James talking about. “Remember w-what!?” He screamed, his voice was cracking and it had nothing to do with the frost anymore. Confusion and fear painting every inch of his face. His gaze searching for the answer in Jim’s eyes. He had to be lying. He _had_ to. 

 

“Has no one told you dear?” Moriarty asked tenderly, reaching out a hand and wiping away one alarmed tear from Sherlock’s cheek. “John Watson is dead.”

 

— _“Sinnerman, you should’ve been a-praying. All on that day.”_ — 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all those wondering, I do not enjoy torturing my characters. But it has a purpose.
> 
> On a brighter note: thank you for your reviews and appreciation.


	8. Chapter 7: The Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pen•ance: |ˈpenəns| noun.
> 
> Voluntary self-punishment inflicted as an outward expression of repentance for a sin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. 
> 
> Warning: This chapter is angst ridden. 
> 
> And I'm so sorry...but not really.

CHAPTER 7: THE PENANCE.

 

 

 

It swirls.

 

It has been swirling from some time now. It twisted and twirled and whirled and spun around and only left dizziness in its wake. It pressed. It pushed hard against the chest and there was never any way to stop It. As It flew, It would flow freely through the air, soaring. A fascinating sight, even for a little kid who had no real understanding of what It was. Just that It had always been there. To watch It, was to be devotedly captivated. And every time It went, each time It left for a while, it was known It would come back; It always did.

 

It had many forms and names, but was recognisable in every one of them. First, the colours were surprisingly ensnaring. Attractive and abnormal in their presence. And even though interesting, they appeared to be quite usual. The spiral of wind It created just carelessly picked up things in its way and tossed them somewhere else, and the uncertainty was appealing. 

 

Its fingers were very long, almost unbelievable so, as if they could grab and reach anything in the world. They would sometimes wrap around objects like vines and started growing around them, even if they could not really move the items in its grasp. For any other one, It would be terrifying, but this was an exception. It should be cause of horror, however, It was impressibly not perceived as that. 

 

The most interesting things were its eyes. And the singularity was in the absence of said. It really had none, but yet, It appeared to feel and sense everything. It could see, and its stare could cut through mountains. It was always interesting to wonder how such thing could be, but its very existence was proof enough of its possibility, since It had been there, as far as memory goes. And even loneliness was accompanied by its stance.

 

Soon, the always-existing presence would become less fresh, and it would grow rather easy to get used to. After all, a silent companion would never come unwelcome.There came a time when this was not completely unquestioned, and there was some consideration of telling someone, but who would want to know about It? And more importantly, who would need to? Somehow, It cautiously warned the kid not to talk, it would definitely ruin their secret. So silence won.

 

It was easy to know whenever It was coming back after It left for a time. like a set appointment already made even before birth. It was natural to tell when It would creep into a room. Silently arriving and grabbing a hand inside its own. And there assuredly were times where its attendance was required, desired and even needed. 

 

It was trusted. It was reliable. Having been close since the genesis of eternity. And sometimes It could lead to believing It would protect that which It followed at any cost. It was very easy to let It seize you and swallow you whole. It managed to convince its leader to do various things, without ever uttering a single word. Its support was felt all through the body and not a thought would question its decisions, and as the kid would continue to listen to its suggestions, It would grow, and what a fascinating thing that was!

 

Needless to say, as time passes some situations inevitably change, and what once was welcome, would grow to convert into unbearable. One particular case of this had been extremely worrying for It. It had known since the beginning, ever since the very first appearance of this usurper, It knew the thief had already won. The kid had found someone else to lead and didn’t have any use for It anymore. So, harsh words were uttered and It stepped out of the way. Never leaving, not completely. But reluctantly allowing for something else to harvest attention, until it became too much to deal with, and It could step back to its rightful place. It was banished from its home, and it would anger It to know It had been overthrown. Nonetheless, as long as this situation didn’t change, It would remain in the shadows. Bitter and wishing the other factor away. Always hating. 

 

But now that factor was gone too. As all the others that had come to pass before, and at night, the old familiar friend was welcome to lay down in the bed again. Next to an almost sleeping form, and It would wrap a limb around the lump in possessive insurance.

 

One night, those nasty knocks that often would come to sound on the door were unable to be ignored anymore. The noise was appalling, contrasting so much to the other’s tranquility, and wishing it to stop would prove useful after a few minutes. Until the intervals began to be closer apart and just praying wouldn’t stop it.

 

The biggest mistake was made, and the kid allowed It to take an imperative role in life and trusted It enough to make it go away, to make it better. But what a cunning slithering form It was, just mocking the usurper’s loyalty, when in the end, It desired the same thing as the shadow on the other side of the wall. With a confident stride, It walked to the door, and with a victorious smile, It let the darkness in.

 

 

* * *

 

 

If you had to pin-point exactly the moment when Sherlock’s life became a living, scorching, and consuming hell, that statement would be it. The detective hadn’t acknowledge it yet. He couldn’t believe in the deception the criminal was feeding him, if only because he refused to let even some part of him accept that reality. 

 

“T-that’s not true.” He whispered, daring the maniac to contradict him, to try and get a word edgewise which allowed it to be in anyway possible. “That’s not true, that’s not true!” He yelled over and over again, his chest rising and falling with a heart beat which threatened to rip out of his shirt like a caged bird. 

 

“You actually, truly forgot.” The criminal observed with a taunting smirk across his face. Looking fascinated at the display of bafflement and denial being demonstrated by the person in front of him. The detective, who was usually above understanding his surroundings and who never showed any sort of vulnerability, was now the paragon of confusion. “Though, I guess ‘deleted’ would be a more accurate term.”

 

Sharp eyes glared at the psychopath through raven wet curls. The current silver gaze cutting through bone like a knife to butter. Hatred pouring out of every pore of his skin and the thirst of revenge spilling from his narrowed glare. He awkwardly reached a hand to grab a fistful of the criminal’s suit and brought their faces centimetres apart. “What did you do to him?” He asked in a low tone which would have made a lesser man shiver with fear, Moriarty, however, wasn’t impressed.

 

“That’s the best part,” He started with an expression of utter elation that could only be decent at a carnival. “I never laid a hand on him.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed, trying to assess the real meaning behind those implications. If Jim hadn’t had one of his mindless beasts to neutralise his blogger then who?

 

It was not as if the scientist believed him, no. But he reasoned there had to be some level of logic behind the lie the consulting criminal was so obviously telling. He knew for a fact that Moriarty was all too aware of his genius, and if there was to be some inconsistency in his story there wasn’t even a slight chance that he would buy it.

 

“No, I had nothing to do with it,” The Irish man continued, as if narrating a bed-time story. Running his machiavellian eyes over the other’s blatant suspicion. “You messed this one up all by yourself.” Having finished, he stood up and away from the boffin quickly. Striding to the door where he retrieved two half full wine glasses from one of his henchmen and returned to sit cross-legged in front of the shivering detective. 

 

He swirled the liquid in one, while stretching his arm to offer the detective the second. The younger man ranked his eyes in skeptical suspicion. It couldn’t be poisoned, that much he knew, it would be terribly anti-climatic to envenom him now, specially after what he just “revealed”. He analysed the contents once more, and even if he knew better than to accept anything the criminal gave him, he reached out a hand and wrapped his fingers around the slender part of the glass. 

 

“Let’s have a toast for Doctor John Watson.” And he raised his wine expecting the boffin to click and toast with him. It won’t happen, of course. He won’t give him this, not after everything else he had taken away from him as well. When the criminal realised the desired celebration wouldn’t happen any time soon, he clashed his glass lightly against the one in the detective’s hand; and then resumed to down the drink in one gulp. “Such a killjoy.” Sherlock heard him mutter quietly while wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “Drink.” He ordered, and since the curly-haired man is in no state —mental or otherwise— of arguing, he obeyed.

 

He feels the somewhat cool, but still warmer than him, liquid travel down his throat, snaking its way through his cavities. It tastes stale and quenches the last little flame of hope he had left. As the thick red substance finds its road to his stomach, leaving all promise in _articulo mortis_ , he thinks of blood and crimson and suddenly feels the need to get it out. To banish it from his body with the surge of nausea he was experiencing. He had liked good wine before all of this, had even bought a few bottles for the flat and drank sporadically. But as with everything else, the situation and factors involved changed his perception on the subject. He knew some things he enjoyed before were always going to be revolting from then on, wine was the paragon.

 

“Ughh, I’ll have someone clean that mess up.” James said rolling his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe Sherlock was reacting like that. Said detective raised his face a bit after he stopped heaving and glared daggers at the demon in front of him. He took what little he had of spark and poured it all in one look. There was little to no probability that it would work, but maybe if he intimidated the madman enough he would spill the truth. Would take back all his words, all his actions and prove to him it was nothing but a long and unbelievably graphic nightmare. He needed to believe in that possibility, it was the only reality which sounded appealing; so he dared what he was convinced was a vision to disappear.

 

Still, the apparition wouldn’t cease its presence before him and took to talking as if explaining the reason his world had come tumbling down. “You know, the moment you jumped from Saint Bart’s, it almost killed him.” Jim said taking a look at his own hands in disinterest. “Now you managed to finish the job.” The expression of pensive fascination on the criminal’s face was enough to send the other man reeling. He launched himself to the brunette in what would become his first attempt to ever physically violate his greatest nemesis. He should have known better than to play mad games with the madman. He had already lost so much, and he was through with playing.

 

The Irish man managed to evade his aim, making the enraged scientist miss his target completely. As Sherlock was laying on the floor, shaking slightly with the final tails of his hypothermia, Moriarty straightened his suit outraged, but below the surface the ever perceptive detective noticed a glint of smugness at his actions, like he had won some unknown match. This made him sag a bit, and somewhat exchanged his wrath for helplessness, nothing he seemed to try was ever effective anymore. It didn’t seem to unveil the reality of the situation. Because it was no true, and he was sure of that, there couldn’t be an existence in which what the other man was telling should be anywhere near acceptable. The world had no need for sinners like himself, but it would be a grey world without a John Watson.

 

“I get it now,” Brown pits of destruction danced in the middle of the psychopath’s eyeballs gauging every reaction of what would become his masterpiece. “No wonder you don’t have many friends.” He paced to the entrance. He rapped something at the door, and soon after one of his scum was unlocking the door for him to make his grand exit. “You claim to care about them when all you do is put them in danger.” And he was out.

 

The last statement lighted another bulb in the boffin’s mind, and he could recall a sentence of what he could only assume was the same conversation he kept forgetting. — _“Is it, though? Are you sure there are no other intentions? Are you sure you would act like this if you didn’t think Mori- that that sick bastard is out there?”_ — And this time it was clear who and about what was talking, and it somehow did nothing to ease his troubled mind; for he felt more and more at a loss with each thing he managed to remember. Could it be true? Had he provoked what he thought he did?

 

Just then did Sherlock realised the song had stopped playing. It had driven him insane, up to the point of wanting to rip open his scalp and cover his ears from the inside; but now that it was gone he couldn’t decide if the silence was in any way relieving. As it dawned in him, the light in the room seemed to preen on the fullness of the dramatic behaviour being displayed, but then it suddenly dimmed, and the world seemed darker, grey.

 

 

* * *

 

 

For the following hours, pigments kept slowly turning into water colours until there was nothing left but unsaturated shadows painting every surface of his vision. The spectrum gone, replaced by the bleak grey scale of which everything was made now. As he looked around the mainly empty room, he started to draw back, to retreat into his Mind Palace and see if he could find any reaffirmation of his doubts or at least some comfort or solace in the familiarity.

 

_Once inside, he forced a weak smile to play on his own face. To almost laugh at the hilarity of the situation in which he found himself at the moment. If what the maniac was saying were true, he would know. He would have noticed, because surely something had to change. ‘It already has’ his mind supplied, but he quickly smothered the part of him that so much as dared to think of this as anything other than a dream from which he should be waking up shortly. He knew the devil will always lie through his teeth, no matter how much his voice was sweet to hear._

 

_He wandered around the corridors and pondered where could Moriarty have acquired the idea to invent such atrocity, as if he wouldn’t see right through it. As if he would believe that any foul fate could be bestowed upon his flatmate if he had any say in the matter. As if, the situation being real, —which it wasn’t— he would hesitate to make sure the man responsible for it ended up six feet under ground. Because he knew he wouldn’t, when those American thugs hurt Mrs. Hudson, he became rampant with wrath; but that would be nothing compared to this.  This he wouldn’t solve with a mildly violent hurl from a window. This, he would avenge, making him see crimson. This, he would not forgive nor forget._

 

_He paced a few more halls, feeling strangely lost. Ever since he had arrived at this captive life, his layout of the place had changed and it all seem weird in a fuzzy and whirling sort of way. Nothing was were it was supposed to, and there were too many aisles that appeared to go nowhere. He was searching for that case he had found the other day, before he was tortured and his brain turned to mush. Those punishments may have seem mild compared to some other methods, but as everything the consulting criminal did, they were tailored-made just for him. They had messed up his psyche so much that ever since the beginning they left him thinking he had actually gone dumb._

 

_However, he could still navigate through the wings with some degree of certainty, albeit a bit confused, and attempt to find what he meant. He reached a poorly lit foyer, and silently wondered when exactly it was he decided a decoration such as this would be appropriate for a place that only existed inside his own head. After ascending a series of stairs he found himself at a door, and subsequently, at a room. The chamber was almost vacant, save from one very important item in the centre of it. A small chest._

 

_He found it at last, and he knew the criminal would not haul him out of his absorption this time. Not before he took a look of what was inside of the box. The temperature heightened a bit from his anticipation, and he was aware of sirens sounding somewhere in the back of his mind. He ignored both in favour of channeling his energy and concentration to the object in front of him and the contents that were about to be revealed._

 

_He knelt before it and traced the wood of the lid for a second, noticing it was unlocked and ready to be opened. He placed his hand in the crack and stopped, suddenly unsure on how to proceed. Would it be beneficial for him to know whatever was in there, given the dire situation and difficult scenario he was experiencing._

 

_“You did it for a reason, you know.” He rapidly turned around to see Molly —or rather the Mind Palace version of Molly— standing beside him. Looking unassuming in her floral jumper and white lab coat, which made her presence all that much stated._

 

_“For a reason; what do you mean?” He asked the pathologist, and she took an imaginary step towards him. Fiddling with her ponytail._

 

_“You are frankly quite brilliant, Sherlock.” She said softly, but her words were heavy as a foot stomp. “Your brain must have had its reasons.” He turned to watch the wooden case once more, Molly was right, if his mind decided to spontaneously repress it, it must have had a logical explanation to do so. But still, could he just walk away from it, though? Could he let his curiosity eat him alive for the sake of being cautious?_

 

_“You can’t keep doing this.” Said a different voice, which was far more masculine than Molly was entitled to have. Behind him, he spotted Lestrade, who was watching him with a mixture of interest and exasperation, as usual._

 

_“Do what?” He asked oblivious as he saw the other two members currently occupying his imaginary room paced around it._

 

_“You’ve got to stop being so reckless. Throwing yourself headfirst into danger is going to get you killed eventually.”  He said running his hand through his hair._

 

_“But this is my own head! Don’t you think that I should know what’s in it? Specially if it could very well be the reason I’m trapped in here!” He lost his tempter at the figments of fiction. And both of them whirled and stared at him with pleading eyes, begging him not to do it. “I’ve got to know, I’ve got to find out if it’s true.” When resigned that he was not going to change his mind, Lestrade disappeared and the pathologist came to rest a hand on his shoulder as he reached out and pulled open the lid. What he found inside rushed its way out and started consuming everything in its path, making the walls tremble and the ceiling start to fall above them. All was falling down in pieces, and if he lingered, he was afraid he would be crushed with the weight of everything he had seen. All the detective could do was quickly gather round his belongings and run to the door. Leaving everything else behind._

 

 

“We should tell Lestrade.” He said putting his hands on his pockets, as he always did when he was anxious, according to his flatmate.

 

“You’re not telling anyone about this.” Said flatmate stated as he stood up from his resting position on the couch. “This needs to be kept secret.”

 

“You are not supposed to take cases.” The blogger reminded him. All this was wrong in his eyes, the detective could see it from a mile away, but he could hardly be expected to stop working and let his brain rot just because the Yard and his royally annoying brother decided he was not stable enough. It’s not as if he was going to mess this up.

 

“Exactly why it has to be secret.” He stalked and sat down at his usual seat, and John unconsciously followed him and sat on his. “Now, either make yourself useful or stop bothering me.” He hissed. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. He also found everyone had taken up the habit of handling him with a pair of tweezers, as if he were going to burst open any minute.

 

He could hear the doctor sigh resigned, as he reluctantly chose his battle and asked. “I just can’t understand why can’t they just arrest the wanker instead of us setting up a trap.” He ran a hand over his jaw in a pensive manner. “I mean, we have all the evidence we need-” And he stopped short the second he saw the look that passed through his friend’s face. John’s deductive skills hadn’t improved that much, but he somehow seemed to be able to read Sherlock perfectly, enough to tell when said boffin was hiding something from him. “We do have the evidence, don’t we Sherlock?” He asked, and the curly-haired man didn’t know how to answer him without sounding idiotic. He knew the blonde wouldn’t understand why that was irrelevant. After staying silent a few seconds his flatmate queried again. “Sherlock?”

 

“I’ll find it.” He assured. Because there was no need for his friend to be worried, he knew how he worked, it shouldn’t come as a surprise if his methods were a bit unorthodox. 

 

“You don’t have evidence to prove it’s him?” He receive no response, act which he took as confirmation, so instead he said. “You know, that’s surprisingly irrational of you.” The body of his flatmate was quickly raised from the armchair and he set to pacing across the sitting room. If anyone was to see this, they would say the both of them resembled a child being scolded by his parent. “What if it’s not even him?” His blue eyes asking a million questions more than what he was voicing. 

 

“It’s him. I know it. We don’t need evidence, it’s just a detail.” The doctor halted his circuit around the room to look at him bewildered. His gaze was searching for signs on his face.

 

“A detail?” The blogger pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, Sherlock! What if-” His mouth closed, the gravity of the situation crushing down on him. “We should really not do this if you’re not sure-”

 

Sherlock interrupted with contempt, he seemed nearly offended by his friend’s comment. “I am sure.” The blonde man didn’t appear to be so sure, so he tried a different approach. “More people might die if we don’t do this.” That should be enough to stir John in the right direction.

 

The doctor, however, was not buying it. “Are you sure this is all there is about this situation? Saving lives?” He came to stand directly in front of his friend.“Because if I’m about to go out there and do some bat-shit crazy stunt I want you to at least tell me the fucking truth behind why I am doing it!” He stated, and the boffin knew this time the blogger would really require an explanation, explanation he couldn’t give. 

 

“Of course it is.” He answered, although if he were able to manage to believe it himself he might had made John accept it too.

 

“Is it, though? Are you sure there are no other intentions? Are you sure you would act like this if you didn’t think Mori-” As soon as he saw the apprehension paint every one of his friends features, he back-pedalled and decided to never use that monster’s name again, at least not in front of the detective. “That that sick bastard is out there?”

 

“But he is out there!” The outburst shocked both of them. And the musician never knew how much the subject affected him until that moment. He thought he held the rains of the situation, when in reality he was just giving drowning man kicks.

 

John was getting really concerned for his friend. Sherlock had been acting strange  —more so than ever— and his blogger was starting to worry this problem had a deeper hold on the boffin than he let on.  “Are you sure you’re not doing this just so you can prove this is him?” The silence stretched on for a few moments, and the doctor had to catch the detective’s attention again. Something was definitely off.

 

“I think I know my own intentions better than you do.” And his eyes casted downwards. John was burning holes with his gaze. “And there are no other than those I have already told you. If you don’t believe me there is nothing I can do to change your mind.” The blonde stood back a bit and crossed his arms, as his companion looked at him defiantly. “I just thought there would never come a day when I’d see the worth of my word loose importance to you.”

 

The thought of clenching his fists to prevent from hitting his flatmate square in the jaw appeared all over the short man stance. “That’s not fair, Sherlock. When have I ever failed at doing something you asked of me?” He questioned. “I just want to know if you’re bloody sure about this because you’re acting like a fucking stubborn child and I can’t take it anymore!” As soon as the words left his mouth the detective saw his friend regretted them completely. But he could recognise that John was also not going to back down from this.

 

“May I remind you that you don’t have to take it? You can-” Sherlock turned now to look at the one man in his life who had always believed in him. Knowing that putting him in a situation such as that was not anywhere near just, but not being able to help himself. He was aware his world would shatter if said man did choose to leave, to not put up with his personality any longer.

 

“Alright that’s enough of this. We’ll do it your way, as usual.” The soldier grabbed his keys and took his jacket off the hook. “You stay here repeating that until you believe it, Sherlock. Because honestly, I think you’re scared out of your mind that there’s even a slight possibility that it is whom you think it is and you just don’t want to accept it.” He slammed the door after him, and the scene somehow showed a level of parallelism that reminded the boffin of that time he made his friend storm out of Bart’s before The Fall and how horrible it all had turned out after. 

 

The flat felt like a vacuum, as if suddenly a great hole was eating away everything and the boffin would soon have to hold on to the pipes to prevent from being swallowed whole. Outside, the clouds were already circling their favourite spot, like a dance taught ages ago. The brunette got lost in the pattern, the push and pull, the inevitability of the situation and the way gravity could do so much for a soul already used to its own pretence of soaring. And like a bullet aimed right at his throat he was able to take away the fog in front of his eyes and realise how much of an ignorant fool he had been. 

 

Letting John go on with the plan alone, specially when it was specifically designed as a two person scheme, was probably the biggest miscalculation he had ever made. He just let his own helplessness blind him and had provoked the doctor to go down the stairs, out of the building, and into the street, alone. So utterly on his own that there was a slight chance that he would not return to Baker Street in one piece, if at all. 

 

Like a man possessed, he ran down the stairs, skipping three steps at a time and stepped out on the sidewalk. The storm was coming nearer and nearer, and Sherlock could only hope that once it hit, he would be able to find a shelter which could protect them both. He ran and ran, trying not to think too much on the consequences his acts could have, instead opting for just placing one foot in front of the other as quickly as his limited physical body would allow him, which in reality was not nearly fast enough.

 

He cut his trajectory time short by using some roofs and practically shoving people aside. Ignoring the indignant glares coming from the several individuals on the floor once he had managed to make them fall back. All of their voices and cries for attention did nothing to get him out of the trance he was in. Above him a subtle breeze of the first droplets were starting to pour down from the sky. 

 

For some reason the steps were becoming more difficult, he didn’t even realised he had been running at full speed for straight 12 minutes and his body was beginning to feel heavy. His pockets full of stones and his feet made of unreliable tar, he just couldn’t reach his destination soon enough. No matter if by sprinting in he would probably ruin everything, he just had to confirm with his own eyes that his world was not shattered yet. 

 

He was really close, just a few meters away and he would be able to put a stop to the whole situation. Except that just as he was about to round the corner, he heard a gut-wrenching scream. A distressing wail as he watched his blogger standing inside an alley being stabbed in the abdomen by a hooded man who seemed to sense his presence better than the doctor himself. He looked at him for a full second, knife still inside of John’s body; and the world appeared to stop spinning for those agonising moments, until the bastard turned to look at his own blade and how it was impaled in another man’s middle just in front of the only man who could ever be clever enough to find him. 

 

Sherlock took to running towards them, but the stranger was already sprinting away from the scene. The detective considered following him and giving him a taste of exactly what sort of wrath he was capable of when his best friend was hurt, but one look at said friend made him run to him instead. 

 

John was clutching his left side and blood was pouring from behind his hands. His eyes hid a storm of panic beneath them, the boffin could only guess his expression was probably a mirror shock. He rushed to his side and tried to pry away the soldier’s palms to take a look at the wound below. “John.” He just couldn’t, as soon as the pressure was off his friend almost doubled in pain, he unwrapped the scarf around his neck and pushed it towards the opening to stop the flow.

 

John grabbed his wrist tightly as he let himself fall on the pavement, the place desolated enough not to have a single person as audience. “John!” He said surprised as he followed his flatmate down to the floor and kneeled beside his sprawled form. “It’s not good, Sherlock.” The doctor said with a small and pained tone that made dread fall over the detective’s shoulders. That was the last thing he wanted to hear right now. Guilt ran its course through his soul. “Tell me what to do.” His panicked voice was probably distressing even John, as if he was the one who were really dying. 

 

“There’s- I don’t think you can-” He was having trouble speaking between the sharp breaths the ache was causing him. And Sherlock could only see red, on his hands, on the pavement, on his friend’s body, so much red it seemed to spread like wildfire. Peeling of his skin, corroding the concrete below them, like a chemical burn. He saw something glint amongst it and picked it up. The damned knife which had ripped through his flatmate's flesh, attempting and succeeding at bursting his veins and spilling that crimson liquid which never seemed to end, still had the nerve to twinkle at him as in mockery. He was entranced by the weapon for a second, he guessed that’s what going into shock felt like, until a tug at his arm made him come back to reality. 

 

He dropped the blade as soon as he remembered he was not wearing gloves and tried to clutch at his scarf again. Attempting to rip it away and find nothing underneath; no wound, no hole, no more of that fucking blood, to prove this wasn’t happening, to prove his mistakes could be fixed. The doctor, however, didn’t let him see the real damage, being considerate even in this situation. “John.” The curly haired man pleaded.

 

“No, Sherlock.” He sighed. “It’s- it’s over.” He said as another jolt of pain racked through his body. “No, you can’t- It’s not- you’ll be fine, John.” His friend chocked out as he palmed his abdomen to search for more injuries. John shook his head at his best friend and smiled sadly, his eyes were starting to close; the detective was appalled, he couldn’t give up now. “No, John! Stay with me. Don’t close your eyes.” He whispered through sobs he didn’t know he was convulsing out. This was all his fault, he should have stopped this. 

 

Somewhere in the far end of the adjacent street there was the sound of a siren, far away to still be invisible, but close enough to hover over them like the pouring clouds were doing above their heads. “John, I need to-” He chocked out as he disentangled his hands from where they were gripping hisown scarf tightly. “No, Sherlock, please don’t leave me now.” His friend begged, it was the first time since The Fall that Sherlock saw that heartbreaking expression of his blogger’s face. One of so much despair and helplessness. The boffin closed his eyes, knowing that if he kept watching it he wouldn’t be able to deny him this, he would give up his resolve and stay, and that was something he couldn’t do, not even for this. “Sherlock, please-” John reached out to try and grab a handful of fabric from the brunette’s body, as he was already beginning to stand up, pawing at his clothing to try and coax him into staying. However the soldier, in his current situation, didn’t possess the strength to tug his friend back down, and the other man could stand up fully, prying his fingers away from his coat with a remorseful face and saying “I’m sorry, John.” Like he meant it, because he did. 

 

“No. Sherlock.” His broken and afraid voice was disappearing in the background as he ran away from the dying form of the only person in the world who truly, unconditionally, irretrievably, believed in him. The only person he had sworn to protect with his own life at all costs. The only one who was important enough to not let him be able to subsist without. The one he had failed so many times and had betrayed beyond forgiveness.

 

He blinked away the tears and kept going as fast and steady as physics would allow him, when suddenly, he felt two arms on his back and a few punches until the air somehow smelled like wrong tinted alcohol and the world, in its entirety, became black.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After all, no matter how many times you told Sherlock the truth, if you were lacking proof, he will probably never believe you. However, as he saw validation of his worst fear stored inside his mind palace -which was now destroyed beyond recognition- he didn’t have any choice but to consider it. 

 

And like a bucket full of water, reality was bestowed upon him with such savagery that it made his whole body shiver. All the truth started dancing in front of his eyes like a sick merry carrousel; the fight, the chase, the finality of the now high definition memory of a wail ringing through the air. Oh, how wrong he was to think that this captive life was nothing short of a mirage. A dream from which he would wake soon enough. When in reality, he felt awoken from a nightmare-filled unconsciousness to an even worse existence. 

 

Guilt, a projectile which drove into his marred skin and ripped open his flesh, was making him panic. He took hold of the wall behind him and he felt how the bullet was piercing him and destroying everything in its path. Not unlike any other shot wound, it started bleeding before the shock allowed it to hurt; Once the pain came, the tides rushed over him strongly and the current took him away completely. 

 

He felt like falling, plunging deep into a sea with his hands, pockets, stomach, full of stones. Swiftly traveling through the waves and tides, almost suspended while going under fast unto the long and careful arms of the ocean. With a burdensome ball and chain accelerating his descent. The detective was choking, trying to find air to breathe in the suffocating room which seemed to be getting smaller. His throat constricting with the walls, and his lungs shamelessly collapsing inside his chest. Filling themselves with water and slowly dying from the excess of liquid inside. Drowning the plea from his voice.

 

He tried reaching out, moving his heavy limbs up to try and grasp the remaining scrape of sanity he possessed; but his cavities kept on filtering in water, and his being kept on ripping through it. He was losing his mind, drunk in the need for something onto which he could hold, the only hope he had left slipping through his fingers. 

 

Before, he could feel something inside his fist. Some sort of smooth fabric which he could use to keep him afloat in a pond of poison, keeping it between his digits like a lifeline. But now, after being aggressively shoved into dirty waters he did not want to swim, his hand had lost all its ability to seize it, and he knew in order for Moriarty to see how far he could sink, he just had had to make him let go.

 

Clutching his abdomen to try and keep it from attempting to retch the food he hadn’t consumed, he slid down the wall. Feeling as if he had been shaken until all his bones had disassembled and all his arteries had been tied into tangled knots. Grossly weeping like his life depended on it. 

 

And that right there, was the punchline for the biggest joke: Sherlock Holmes, the man known for acting like a machine half the time, and being a heartless bastard the other half, was crying. Shamelessly mourning something he thought he would never have to lose. Contrition and pain being spilled like blood in war, while he helplessly poured stream after stream hoping his eyes would just go dry. 

 

In his remorse-ridden daze, the silver-gazed man could hear steps getting near his current position. Hands grabbing his dark curls and yanking so his head would raise. He didn’t really know what was happening, and he particularly did not care. They could do whatever they wanted to him now, he was too preoccupied with trying to invent a way for the ground to open a crack and then convince it to let him slip through it and reside there in the subsoil. 

 

He heard a faint gasp, and a pair of amused chuckles once the present saw his red-rimmed eyes, tear-stained cheeks and his haunched position as sobs racked his frame. “Don’t cry, sweetheart.” One said with as much venom and ridicule he could muster. The other figure in the room already fully laughing, and muttering under his breath something along the lines of _Pathetic Scum_.“Come on,” The first one urged. “Open that mouth for me.” He grasped the man by the jaw and after squeezing to get it to widen, he snatched the bottle from the other man and poured some substance down the musician’s throat.

 

“Good boy.” The second one commented, while the other pat him in the cheek after releasing his abused mandible. The crumbled form on the floor watched them with resentful eyes, but didn’t say anything back. The two goons stood up and walked away. Disappearing into the silence, while the detective was still trapped inside the dream-like walls that now seemed to surround his existence.

 

Demented in his self-loathing, having betrayed one of the only true things he had in his life. Because he had promised the heavens and the trees to protect that man until his last breath, from himself, from all the criminals they chased, from all the beasts and demons they could encounter. But he had failed to anticipate what he would do to defend him from the ones which had always lived inside of him. 

 

Even when he was younger, Sherlock never expected dying and going to heaven -if there was even one. However, this time he was positive. There would be no eternal salvation for him when he was to depart from this life, not after what he had done to John. All the blogger ever did was loyally follow his every step, to believe in him when no one else would, and that was the way the detective had repaid him. He didn’t deserve forgiveness, and honestly, he was glad not to get it. He knew he will be going to hell for this, and he will readily welcome it with open arms.

 

 

* * *

 

 

For a hollow, empty man, who didn’t really know he had a heart until very recently, he did not appear glad by the news that proved otherwise. In fact, if he was being completely honest with himself, given the opportunity, he would not hesitate to grab a spade and carve it out of his chest. Never-mind about the shape it would leave him in. He would actually prefer the weeping arteries, and decaying tissue to what he was experiencing at the moment. 

 

He had not realised how a mistake from his part could lead to such disastrous results. He never intended something like that to happen, nor he even predicted that him being wrong could be a possibility. But wrong he was, and now he had to pay the biggest price. It’s true that some situations are not within our reach to manipulate, no matter how capable or close we are, but he somehow should have prevented this. He should have figured out his error earlier, or at least stopped John from leaving on his own.

 

Too long had the detective imprisoned ghosts inside his mind, and they were now slowly clawing their way out from the debris of his mental universe, yearning to see the light of day. The truth is Sherlock was tired of fighting them for this long, he had pushed this aside for too many a time, and just like the _Bogeyman_ , they slithered out from under his bed now, at his most vulnerable of times, to haunt him. Is was highly ironic that the monsters that had never scared him when he was little, would be able to terrify him so thoroughly today. Because before, he only thought about the challenges inside his own room and found them unworthy of his fear, not even real enough or logically possible to even cause a slight tremor up his spine; but now he knew better. He had become aware that those beasts were not inside a suspicious looking cupboard, but walking all around him  — had been all the time, actually . H e was only just realising what a scary world was out there and how unprepared he was to face it. 

 

Moriarty, being the chiefest of the cruelest live-forms, was talking to him now. After leaving him alone for a few days, letting him truly absorb the news of his best friend dying in whatever way he pleased; the criminal was now back at his side in full force.

 

Story-telling about how unfortunate it had been that someone else had managed to snatch John away from him before he got a chance to play with him. Listing possible ways in which he could have tortured the soldier in payment for his loyalty to the sleuth. This was hell to hear for the boffin whom so desperately needed some comfort right now. But on the spider went, making the silver-gazed man want to tear his own ears off just to stop himself from listening all the hypothetical hurt he could have inflicted on John if he were still alive. For Sherlock, it didn’t matter that the scenarios could never become a reality, seeing them play out in his mind did not only distress him for their explicit and horrifying nature, but they also brought forth images of what had actually happened to his dear friend because of him, and how he was never going to forgive himself for it.

 

The criminal was sitting on a chair, located directly ahead of where the slumped form of the genius was laying, leaning his side on the wall and with his legs curled up against his body as in protection. Looking a lot like a scared animal waiting to lash out at the slightest provocation. “You know what I find extremely funny?” James asked, completely aware that he would not be getting a reply. “How close to Baker Street we actually are.” 

 

At this, Sherlock’s damaged brain started to attempt at bringing to mind any location within a 3 kilometre radio of his _home_ , but came out empty handed. That helpless need of staying alive that comes with being human making itself known, even if the curly-haired man saw no reason to fight for anymore. “If they haven’t found you yet, it’s because they’re not even looking.” That cut deep into the flesh, specially when Sherlock was already dancing in the penitence ball.

 

“I don’t blame them, though.” Moriarty continued. “After all, you got Johnny-boy killed and then ran off when you heard the police coming. That was not very decent of your part.” The detective could still not believe, nor remember, what could possibly had gotten through his head as to even contemplate running when he heard the sirens, much less do it. But here he was, captured after his failed attempt at escaping and ruthlessly berating himself for being so heartless. The criminal didn’t have to remind him the extent of treachery he had shown, not when his usually impenetrably thick skin was already feeling thin.

 

“With your prints on the knife they probably even think you did it.” The brown-eyed man said nonchalantly while he inspected the state of his nails, as if opening up someone’s skull and playing while sticking your hand in their brain is no issue to concern oneself about. “So, what do you think, Sherl? you think it’s possible for them to believe you would be capable of doing something like that?” And “ _Sherl”_ had all but just about have it with the beast calling him pet-names. He disliked them on a normal basis, and hearing them come out swirling from a mouth whose owner clearly did nothing but despise him was another complete level of denigrating. No matter how sweet the words, they always left a bitter taste in his gut. “I bet they do. And no one comes looking for a killer, you see?”

 

“Why should I believe a single word you say?” The musician asked after a seemingly endless stream of silence. He could not let Jim enter and have a permanent residence in his subconscious, he was already plagued enough by guilt and grief to have an spider constantly contributing his venomous suggestions and opinions. He needed to keep him out of head, as long as possible.

 

“Would I lie to you?” The consulting criminal inquired, and was only dignified with an ironically exasperated glare from the vulnerable-looking ball of detective on the floor. “Okay, okay. You don’t have to believe in anything I say, Sherlock.” Jim preached, his eyes turning that impossibly darker shade of black when he spoke; almost as if he was about to thrust a curse on your shoulders. “But you do, don’t you?” The face the younger man made was all the affirmation he needed. “It’s obvious they have given up on you.” The chair was vacated as the criminal stood. “So brace yourself, darling. There’s no John-The-Guardian-Angel to come and save you from hell now.” And with that he exited.

 

But Sherlock didn’t want salvation. He didn’t want to prepare himself for what was to come. Because he wasn’t broken, and he didn’t need to be fixed. He just needed something to forget, something to soothe the ache that had been growing ever since he found out the true nature of his despicable actions. So he scrambled to where the nearly forgotten plastic bag laid waiting. Ripped it in half, spilling its contents to the frankly dirty floor and wrapping the rubber tourniquet around his arm. He prepared the syringe, inserted the needle to his veins, and following a deep breath, pushed the longed liquid in. After that, is was all just a blissful blur. 

 


	9. Chapter 8: The Deceasing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> De•ceas•ing: |diˈsēsING| noun. 
> 
> To depart from life. To stop being.

 

 

CHAPTER 8: THE DECEASING.

 

 

A very familiar substance rushed through his veins, intoxicating the cells and exchanging what it could to suit its own fancy; and he could not be more indifferent about it. As the debris of a broken man’s consciousness was quietly rounding up around him. Slowly, painfully unhurried as if dancing a lackadaisical Merry-go-round to which he could only follow with his eyes. They finally stopped and sat down in a circle, joining hands as in praying.

 

Almost hourly forcing into his bloodstream the numbing liquid to help forget all the spiders he saw climbing up the walls. Drifting in and out of awareness. No time spent wondering when was the last time he actually ate —probably three to four days ago. When at last, those mindless thugs exchanged putting their filthy fingers on his jaw to force a dubious fluid down on him, for providing something he actually needed— not caring for anything, except for the loneliness.

 

The silence was always so consuming. White noise yelling at him all at once; and even if the drugs did quiet it for a while, the infinite feeling of voidness was undeniably tearing the last of his sanity to pieces. That sensation of complete emptiness enveloping him resulting in unapologetic apathy from his surroundings. 

 

The apparition, once it came, was so life-like that he almost would be certain it was real if he didn’t know any better. Silent but from the occasional scrub of fabric against itself. Perfect down to the last detail, excepting the fact that it was so utterly wrong. It stood there, in front of him like he hadn’t a care in the world. With his blonde hair and blue eyes. Staring at the detective as if he hadn’t had a knife pushed through his abdomen because of him. 

 

An image brought by the detective to both comfort and torture himself as an act of contrition. A memory made out of intangible smoke that was summoned to fill the empty space, the silence that was threatening to consume him, because right now he’d rather experience an electric shock than be left alone with nothing but the thoughts inside his head.

 

Sherlock wondered if this is how he had made John feel after he forced him to watch what would later become a recurring nightmare in the blogger’s restless nights. The helplessness, the guilt, the fear of the eloquent quiet that declares truths, realities. Knowledge of a life well lived slipping down the drain because of a mistake. Being trapped as a victim of a cruel fate that someone else had deliberately carved out,  forced to lay down in the grave you dug for yourself perfectly. 

 

He pondered if his friend had also subconsciously sought out something to fill the gaping hole inside the space, forced his own mind to give him someone to whom he could talk. Because Sherlock failed to function without his best friend, and he knew it. He was already experiencing it. And what the detective would do to bring John Watson back, in any form, if ever possible, it’s best not said.

 

“This is what he wants.” Sherlock breathed disappointedly to the figure in front of him. Blue eyes shifted to see him through the fluctuating blonde eyelashes. Not making a single sound.

 

“He wants me to do this.” Chapped lips muttered viciously. “He wants me to lose my mind.” The sleuth explained, fishing for a respond, but the mirage just stared at him. Not even making an attempt to open his mouth.

 

“John.” Called the silver-eyed man. Seeking to sink down into a seance. Trying to communicate with a ghost as if he wasn’t a ghost himself. Still, would the phantom remain soundless, only almost indifferently shifting his gaze between both the boffin’s eyes. Sherlock contracted his legs towards his body in a defensive manner. “John.” He insisted, closing together his wet eyelids and burying his face between his own knees. Bracing himself for the respond that would miraculously break the silence at long last. 

 

However, when it never came, he raised his face to the only sight that had not made him want to crawl out of his skin ever since he was first trapped in that place a lifetime ago -which in reality had been thirty one days. “John!” He yelled desperately. Trying to coax him into answer him, but nothing happened. 

 

“Say something!” Long, slender fingers grabbed at his hair and pulled. “Just... please?” He pleaded, sounding disheartened. Looking at the other man supplicating. “Fine!” He spat resigned when the other seemed to refuse him that small mercy just to spite him.

 

The way Sherlock saw him, he had a big, almost black blemish on his stomach. Probably from all the liquid he lost. It made the detective choke on his own air to know he was the cause of that. To know that his hands were also tainted with the same blood; it was sickening.

 

Staring down at said extremities, now cleansed, the boffin saw a completely different picture. And suddenly, he felt utterly dirty. That sort of polluted nature that water would never clean. He had to get it off, he needed to get it _off_ now. His scrubbed his palms over his wrists as if rinsing. But it was still there, it was still _on_ him, and he couldn’t stand it a second longer. 

 

There was no more gore on his hands, not really. Hadn’t been for a few days actually. Yet all the detective could see was crimson liquid on them, over him, covering every inch of his skin, seeping all the way down through his pores to his very soul, and just getting it off his skin wasn’t enough anymore. His nails scratched at his arms, digging into his flesh viciously, cutting stripes so deep to draw blood, trying to flush all of it out from the inside too. The procedure hurt a lot, but all he cared about was the filthy stain that wouldn’t come off.

 

After the frantic feeling had left, he turned to look at the blogger once again. With fingers bloodied and clawed arms. Not so much in panic but in realisation. A frown on the blonde’s face made the detective furious.“Don’t judge me.” He warned flatly.

 

The scowl was painted with concern, and it made the sleuth mad with shame. Angry at his friend that even after having murdered him, he still dared to feel worry for his aggressor. He had no right to hold against him an opinion on the actions to which he resorted to heal -or in this occasion to auto-destroy- from his trespasses. “Why are you looking at me like that?” He snarled. “This is your fault!” Accusingly, he waved his abused arms to draw attention at the damage that he had managed to inflict on himself.

 

“If you hadn’t gone and gotten yourself stabbed, I wouldn’t even be here anymore!” His flatmate looked at him passively through his outbreak. Not seeming overly moved by his placing of blame over his shoulders. As if welcoming the burden if it helped him vent his pent up despair. And that made it worse. “I wouldn’t be here at all!” He was screaming outrageous things to gauge a reaction, even if the other man was continuously being infuriatingly patient. Never mind the fact that he was as fanciful as his Mind Palace.

 

Frustrated, the curly-haired man grabbed an already used syringe and threw it to the silent companion. “Speak to me, goddammit!” He said, as the needle flew right through the intangible body in front of him, landing on the floor with a pathetic whimpering clink.

 

The raging impotency he felt was enough to cost him his composure, throwing him against the wall in a heap. Sobbing like a hungry babe and circling his thin arms around his neglected body for protection. The man one metre away from him watched the sleuth with big round sad eyes. “It’s your fault!” The detective cried, then pointed a finger at the figure. 

 

Something odd happened then. The ghost started to become blurry, and even in his compromised state, Sherlock knew that wasn’t only the tears flooding his eyes. No, the spirit was becoming more and more invisible by the moment, and just as fast as it came, it was gone.

 

The chamber felt bigger after its absence, and certainly darker. As if by leaving, the phantom had sucked the light out of every particle and left them all to shine dully in the aftermath. It was a horrible feeling, to replace the presence of something so medicating for his mind-sickness with loneliness. “All your fault.” He whispered to empty room, and it rung true in the barren space. Only for him and the silence to hear.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock could scarcely recall a vague memory of something about a four year-old corpse floating in a lake in America before everything became bright again. The dirty walls of the room becoming defined in front of his eyes. He ignored how much time he had been out, and couldn’t even remember when was the time in which he lost consciousness. His head pounded when he moved it, and there was a shrilling noise resonating in his ears; no one else seemed to hear it, though. Once he took in his surroundings completely and assessed the situation, he groaned. Waking up to a captive life with Moriarty watching him from the door was not a fate the detective would wish upon anyone. 

 

“You overdosed.” The maniac stated simply, almost too mechanical to be him. Completely devoid of emotions, which couldn’t, by any chance, mean something good for the man in the corner.

 

He remained quiet like a tomb. Trailing the dusting of small scars and scratches that now covered the white canvas of his arms skin. If John could be there to see them, he would be fuming with rage at the careless abuse. But then again, that was rather the point: John would never again be around to see them.

 

“I didn’t expect such an idiotic behaviour from you, that’s for sure.” The fact that Jim was angry instead of delighted was not a good sign. He should be elated that the sleuth was so broken he didn’t care enough to calculate his dose, he should be having a bloody parade completed with balloons. In its place, he was standing with his hands behind his back, looking for all the world like he was ready to evaporate the man in front of him with sheer crushing pressure by pure whimsical rage.

 

The detective couldn’t really be bothered to answer the statement. Not because of its falseness, but rather the telling absence of it. He hadn’t the mind or energy to try and find a flaw in such perfect veracity. Sherlock knew his behaviour was appalling, completely moronic and self-destructive; so much that had he been in his right mind, he would have been ashamed of his actions. But with a remorse-addled brain and heavy tiredness clinging to his body he found it difficult to care. Hard to actually spare a thought about numbers and dosage.

 

“You are lucky you’re so much fun to play with.” James said. Putting his hands inside his pockets in a manner the silver-gazed man hated with all his being. As he despised everything else about his situation. He hated the loss of control, the bright lights, the lilting voice, the damp smell, the hard floor, and the cold walls. The lonely days, the sleepless nights, the ache in his head, and the pain in his chest. The guilt, the silence, the hunger, and the sorrow. He hated Moriarty, too. And above all, he hated himself. But drugs. Drugs he did not hate.

 

Most of the day he felt so numb he couldn’t even feel his own toes. His body almost an ever-lost memory of which he had let go long ago. His transport working as best as it could on its own while his mind tore holes at his soul. Turns out he had been wrong yet again on that first day; his spirit was proving to be infinitely weaker than his physique, which refused to succumb to its doom no matter how hard the madman wished for it.

 

“What do you want from me?” The little broken voice asked at last. The unhealthily slim body spasming, trying to work through his grief jag in order to appear a sliver of the man he used to be. “What could you possibly take now?” The prisoner sobbed. Moriarty seemed to notice the slight rock of the man’s foot, and the compulsive biting of a thumb’s nail. Watching the world’s only consulting detective laying on the concrete utterly destroyed was a sight cruel to any eye. It also did manage to bring a small smile from the criminal. “You’ve taken everything from me!” And just like that, the boffin became angry, drunk in an instant wrath that would burn out soon enough.

 

“I don’t want anything from you, sinner man.” His forked tongue muttered out. Slithering, while its owner rejoiced in watching the flinch that went through the other man at the sound of those words. “All I ever wanted, you’ve already given me.” And it was true to some extent, perhaps. At the very least that’s what the psychopath believed, and what he had also ensnared the detective into believing. Moriarty had wanted to posses everything Sherlock was, with the addition of whatever could be left after that, and the curly-haired man had let him snatch it all away. Had permitted him to slip it through his fingers, until there was only a few unglued pieces that could never serve any purpose to anyone, and even those, James had collected in time. Not leaving anything of the person he once was. Rendering the detective confused and unidentified, as the kleptomaniac kept feeding from his tired, amorphous, open hands.

 

Sherlock eyed the maniac in front of him in all his control and confidence. He seemed so in charge with his surroundings, sort of what himself used to be before all hell rained down upon him, and the detective was way too smart, even in his compromised state, to believe that if he clung tightly to a version of his past, it would be able to fix him. But he believed that there wasn’t a single wandering soul in the universe that could. 

 

The gravity of the situation was taking a very heavy toll on the boffin; whose limbs were barely able to bear the almost inexistent weight of his body anymore. He made a few attempts to support himself on his arms so he could sit up, but failed miserably time and time again. After a couple more tries, he gave up and drew his limbs towards his body in resignation.

 

Moriarty took a very throughout look to the crumbled ball of curled up detective on the floor and whispered. “I should let you die.” The hushed words were more powerful than any other noise could ever hope to be. They banged at Sherlock’s messily built walls, smashing them completely. The boffin had never really cared what other human beings said about him, let alone James-bloody-Moriarty. But hearing the last person he had in his life -albeit his greatest enemy- finally give up on him too, he  realised he had never known himself capable of such pain.

 

The worthless feeling crept up from his feet to his face, and thick drops of water started leaking from his eyes with intensity again. However, his breathing was still restful, as if he had been sleeping. He failed to indicate if that was caused by his transport finally giving in, or from the deep violent horror said venomous words were giving him. He wondered: if the criminal was obviously so disappointed in him, why did he refused to kill him? In a bout of stubbornness, he voiced his query. “Why don’t you?” 

 

James looked at him as if he was the most stupid person to have ever walked this earth. Like he was missing something important; the detective couldn’t even begin to understand what else he could have possibly looked past. “My poor, innocent Sherlock.” He softly said as he took determined strides towards the shivering form. The monster reached out a hand and ran it through the other’s curls. The sleuth hesitantly shook his head in an obvious plea for him to stop. However, prayers meant nothing to Jim. The silver-eyed man realised there was nothing else he could ever do against this man. Ever since he had arrived there, the strength that he always paraded so much had been slowly flaking, now replaced by a deep clinical abjection worthy only of a prescription. At first, the sleuth had been sure he would leave that place without a scratch. For a moment he really believed he would someday win, now he wasn’t so sure.

 

“Such pathetic, little, _stupid_ man.” He sighed. Still petting his captive’s hair as in a sick caress. He stroked and fondle with a few locks while the detective mortifiedly wept  from the floor, then he abruptly stopped and grabbed a fist of them roughly and pulled, saying: “Because killing you would be a kindness.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bottled up in a jar of hopeless horror, Sherlock was constantly tortured in the same manner by Moriarty for half a week. Captive, not even having the choice of escaping by death. Just waiting there, breathing though the poked holes, hoping to catch a sliver of strayed mercy. The criminal loved to see his arch-nemesis in such a tragic situation. He revelled in watching the detective silently loose himself to the vicious vortex of self-deprecation.

 

The detective’s eyes were open, but they could seldom achieve to believe what they were seeing. The four walls that raised from the floor around him where all he knew now. Their grey colour taking new hues, and Sherlock knew each and every dent by heart. The sole lightbulb that hanged from the ceiling didn’t seem so lonely anymore, it’s dim light appeared to be on his side. Fighting the deep shadows that were threatening to consume him, lately he found he didn’t mind them as much.

 

Moriarty had been true on his promise. His resolve to break him had been stronger than anything the curly-haired man could hurl at him in defence. The ache that had become an intrinsic part of his whole being proved that. The match which the criminal had struck started a deep conflagration that ended up incinerating him. Gone was his Mind Palace, and his options, and his fickle attempts to be a good man. All that was left was the fire, the intense warmth that rushed into him and left him feeling empty. His very own existence shattered into a million pieces of jagged glass.

 

He found himself yearning for the end, and he had said so to his captor on various occasions already. Whenever the consulting criminal had encountered a new way to torture his fatigued mind —as _the Hole_ or _oxygen deprivation_ — he had begged for release, for the opportunity to let himself get lost in the comfort that poison provided, only to be rejected by a smirking Jim every time. Howling _“Please, just kill me!”_ once it was clear that suffering had become his sole and only purpose in life. Trashing and whimpering and withering away in the everlasting prayer for someone to end it all, to really ignite him and let him become ashes. Parched lips stammering out orisons of _“Let me die”_ and _“I beg of you”_ just to fall in apathetic deaf ears. 

 

He had reached the bottom, there was nothing else that could be done to him that was worse than what he was feeling then; nor there was anything anyone could even attempt to do to save him, not that anyone would try. That convulsing sorrow was now ingrained on his bones, his blood, and his spirit. Controlled by the anxiousness to depart from this chamber of lamentations that was reality into a gentler non-existence. He felt ready, completely suited to fade into oblivion and be totally erased from life and its ceaseless horrors. Leaving this meagre world that will likely fail to notice he’s gone; easily replaced as he was now. And he could do it, now that he had really nothing to lose he would be able to attempt an escape, to run away of the endless affliction of his iron shackles and be free to discontinue his miserable survival. But he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t capable of even allowing himself that small scrape of compassion. 

 

Moriarty had even offered him the opportunity to do so. To make all his desires real, but he wasn’t able to take it. The criminal had sat next to him, opened the door of  his concrete cell and given him permission to get out and flee the captive life; saying: _Go. Go now and I promise I won’t go after you. Leave if you think what you have out there is any better than what you have here_. But he wasn’t brave enough to end it all on his own, he didn’t feel he had earned an easy way out. And if he did not die, where would he go instead? John was gone, and all his other friends would blame him for that —not that he didn’t believe he deserved it. He doubted even his brother would be able to look past his trespasses and he didn’t posses the courage to risk it only to be greeted with an image of pure hatred directed towards him that mirrored the one he had for himself etched upon his mind forever.

 

Confrontation about his sins was not something he thought he could handle, so he preferred not to leave. He stayed there, laying haphazardly on the floor, heartbroken and with his scarred arms around himself in a bittersweet embrace of protection. Drunk in the display of his own mild self-comfort for himself was all he had now. Mentally digging his own grave with bare hands and ready to plunge inside and be swallowed by the dirt again. 

 

Jim was sitting right next to where his head was occupying its space. Much closer that the detective would prefer; but then again, Moriarty would always be one mile too close in Sherlock’s opinion. The boffin hated the other’s presence and the anguish it commanded when close. He made a slight whimper at the hard truth that he, again, was alone in the sea of hungry monsters with nothing but a frail stick to defend himself. His strength gone like a light and his prize-worthy intellect clogged up with overflowing sentiments of grief and lamentations. 

 

“What’s wrong, dear?” The criminal asked in a lilted tone. The figure sprawled beside him shook violently but never answered. He was not going to respond to those horrible taunts anymore. He may have decided not to move another muscle for the rest of his pathetic existence but that didn’t mean words like that didn’t hurt him. The consulting criminal knew exactly what was wrong, why Sherlock was maintaining himself imprisoned on what could only be described as a pit of torment: he had succeeded at ripping him apart, he was broken, and now he just wanted to rub that in his face. To gloat about the fact that he had rendered that brilliant person into someone who chased death like a man possessed and would shoot anything into his veins in order to get it. However, said man had no desires of allowing him that sort of satisfaction.

 

This was truly _it_ now. After everything the man had done to him, there was really nothing left to be done, nothing to be achieved. Nothing to hope for. Sherlock is aware of the odds of this ever getting better and they are non-existent. This crippling pain and sadness he felt wasn’t treatable. There was only one thing that could save him from the severe depression he was feeling, and even that seemed adamant in sliding through his fingers. 

 

James didn’t look so pleased with his companion’s silence, but made no comment about it; As Sherlock watched silver beings of his self-destruction being perfected at fate’s cruel hands. Battling each other in a war where the winner would be anyone but himself. They were permanently damaging his psyche, turning to look at him with such brilliant eyes that the curly-haired man was ashamed to be seen by them. Smirking in the darkness of his self-hatred and paying not the slight-less mind to his troubled insides. He darted his misty vision around the room once more, only to find the spectres had doubled in number. What had been a few spectators to his redundant fit of suffering before, were now a small crowd of dancing reminders of each of his failures. 

 

The criminal’s presence seemed to exacerbate his already dire situation. Adding his unique shade of special doom to the tragic painting that was his reality, empowering the demons running rampant around them. The detective knew they couldn’t really harm him, but the sole fact of them being there was enough to terrify him to his core. He tried to enter his Mind Palace, but there was nothing left of it now. His head was fuzzy with strayed musings and he couldn’t really remember a lot of what was once his life-line. He wondered briefly if he had snapped at last; if he had finally become as demented as the criminal had wished him to be, and if he hadn’t already been like this all his life. Thoughts like these would plague his every waking moment.

 

However, unconsciousness was another matter entirely. When unconscious he would be able to find a different sort of punishment, jumbled memories kept coming forth in the most unwelcome of times, reminiscences he didn’t want to even acknowledge fired through his brain like a curse. All he ever did wrong was conspiring against his sanity and eating alive any comforting vision he could hope to remember. Every time he awoke from his fitful and short sleep he would feel simultaneous relief and dread over the reality in which he was plunged, but being here was definitely better than being out there; at least, if he was careful enough, he was already one step closer to the yearned casket.

 

The floor felt cryogenic on his cheek, and it was annoying as it was grounding. Having no real thought but intense pain to think about, he found himself nearly catatonic with despondency; but the naked floor was soothing in a way. He could concentrate in that, and just try to block out every other unsavoury assessment, not that he was ever completely successful, yet the pure distraction of a few seconds was worth it. Whenever he would dare to think back on his former life, before Moriarty had sunk his teeth and nails on him, a wave nausea and anxiety rushed its way through him in a way that it was hard to come out of the reverie with both mind and wrists intact; the stark contrast between then and his reality now was enough to make  him sick, so he avoided it. And so would he stay there, laying on the floor like a discarded doll attempting to think about anything but how much damage his mistakes had caused and how he viciously wanted to disappear into thin air; to delete every bit of his existence until the lives he had ruined so throughly got fixed again. 

 

He felt like crying, he always felt like crying now. How ironic, he had always been so in control of his emotions, and now they repeatedly seemed on the verge of pouring out from his eyes at any given moment. Sherlock was tired, exhausted of living a life of which he wanted no part, and the criminal only made matters worse.

 

_“Without me, you are nothing, Sherlock.”_ He would always say. Reminding him of the fact that the only part of him that remained unblemished was the real hatred he felt for this man, now stronger than ever. But as his troubled psyche struggled to keep track on exactly what grounds was he any different than the criminal in front of him, he preferred to take a morbid comfort out of the accustomed rivalry, having nothing else to hold unto but the familiarity of despising him.

 

Moriarty looked at the detective once more, and smiled when he saw enough time had passed and he hadn’t made an attempt to go, he seemed to have resigned himself to a life-time of this. “No one’s coming.” As if to shake loose the final hope inside the detective’s chest, rendering him hollow, filled with nothing but blank space. James was pulling him down into the abyss, killing him with every new word he let past his lips. 

 

“You are alone, Sherlock.” The grave that had been carved out for him was laid ever since he arrived at that foul place, but that sentence entombed him. The detective closed his eyes tightly as a childish attempt to think away reality, that way when he opened them again he would find out it had all been a nightmare, a sick joke played by his own treacherous mind, but no matter how many attempts he could manage, it never worked.

 

“But you’ll always have me,” The criminal continued with a voice as tender as if he were speaking to a little scared boy, which he supposed he was; he kneeled forward in order to come face to face with his willing prisoner. Sherlock dug his nails unto his shoulders from rage but kept staring straight ahead, refusing to even acknowledge the continuous stabbing and beating. “I’ll always be right...here.” The psychopath punctuated the last word with a painful jab at his forehead and smiled at him. He delved into the curly-haired man’s eyes and when he found them empty he deemed his work finally finished. He stood up to walk out of the room and after a final long glance at the broken figure on the floor, he left. Moriarty never stepped through that door again.

 

* * *

 

 

The open door was like a gaping wound waiting to be bound, stitched closed. For the capability to leave was somehow more scary than imagining a lifetime imprisoned in that hell. He desperately needed the opportunity gone, he did not want it anymore. 

 

Sherlock had no plan, nor the desire to devise one. He had resigned himself to the provisional existence he was bound to endure until all his organs collapsed and he could fade unto that blissful nothingness. His necrotic soul would finally match his transport once he was rid of the superfluous action of living. He had allowed the perverse sick joke that he had mastered over the fact of being alive to go on for too long, he felt ready to drop the facade now; to admit that he was going to die, and that he could see the appeal in that since a great while back.

 

Most men would be terrified when faced with their inevitable doom, would run and hide and lie to scape from the idea of their own demise; put it in the back of their minds and do anything else to distract themselves from the fact that they are actually dying. That used to be Sherlock too, but not anymore. Now, he was eager to depart this world which held nothing for him, to have the pleasure of becoming a memory collecting dust inside those four walls that had been the chamber in the presence of his penitence. 

 

For the detective dying was mercy, an underserved one, but mercy nonetheless. A sympathy that life was generous enough to grant him, the certainty of knowing it was going to happen, that it had finally responded to the calls he had made to its sweet name left him breathless but peaceful; the resolution of his objective allowing him to gain back a sliver of control at least in that respect. Death had found its path to him even before these last few days he has spent alone, burying its slithering presence unto his damaged heart until you could not sever one without the other, and stayed there for what seemed an eternity. 

 

It waited for the perfect time to strike, and Sherlock thought he already felt its subtle effects. The constant cold that was now intrinsically attached to his body was very close to those degrees of warmth a person looses when they die. The heaviness and stiffness of his limbs was the recognisable Rigor Mortis. And his blood pumping organ seemed to have stopped working at last. He figured he was practically deceased already, he just had to take his last breath and he’d get there.

 

He wondered briefly if there would be enough room inside John’s casket for him to fit. And if there was, if the universe would allow him yet another mercy and let him share dying quarters with his faithful blogger as they did when they were alive.

 

He took a moment to look on what his life had been, memories falling like rain on him. Sparkling in the vacuum of his loneliness. He watched them with rapt attention one last time. Perusing through them at quick speed since he didn’t know exactly how much time he had left. Skipping the most painful parts, the guilt he felt was already too deep, adding more grief and shame did not sound like something he should do. He watched his glorious days pass him by and the people he cared about forget him. His history was blemished with all sorts of transgressions. Addiction, apathy, betrayal, things he couldn’t change, all haunting the once pure timeline, but he glossed through them too. 

 

Once he got to the end he remembered the real cause why his soul was feeling so numb; the last pages of his history were obsessively dripping red with despair and terrible horror for which he was to blame, and the world would have to forgive him if he did not desire to continue with them one more second.

 

He was responsible for everything that had happened to him, for poking the beast, for tempting faith, for betraying the most important person in his life to the point of fatal casualty. It was only logical that after that much ache in his life something eventually had to give, and that something was quickly unraveled by someone who really knew him better than he knew himself. Now the only thing he wanted was a the long rest, to have a knife pushed through his abdomen as perfect symmetry of what he had accomplished and lie gone to the world exactly where he was. 

 

Breathing was becoming difficult, and his head felt heavy enough to drop at any moment. He eyed the tricky entrance wearily and found that he had discovered his own exit, a _real_ way out of the misery. Shutting his leaden eyelids and dissolving in the drowsy darkness, he took deep breaths while he admitted for the fist time that he had lost the fear of falling. After three days of utter abandonment and with his eyes already closed, he surrendered. 

 

* * *

 

 

_Light. Everything around him was infected with an enhanced quality difficult to escape. The garish glow of the unfeeling air brutally attacking his psyche with cold vision. The cyclone doing laps around him picked him up, and tossed him carelessly unto a hard surface. He thought he could see something there too, but when he tried to advance the wings strapped to the back of the body started coming apart in feathers and the figure hunched over and spilled its guts on the floor. He still tried to reach out slowly and help this stranger place its insides back into its torso, but as soon as his hand made contact with the bizarre form, it raised its head and screamed. He couldn’t remember a thing after that._

 

Light. That’s all he could see when he opened his eyes at last. Bright, white, blinding light. He took a few moments to let his eyes adjust to the sensory attack after seemingly being closed for so much time. Once he was able to take in his surroundings, he scanned the unfamiliar room around him. Medium size, walls painted white, light blue floor, and there was what appeared to be a very expensive screen in the corner. 

 

However, that was not the most interesting feature that this chamber possessed. There were quite a lot of sophisticated equipment around him, all sorts of still vaguely familiar machinery, of which he can’t quite recall the function just yet. But he’ll get there once the haze of sleep lifts from his head.

 

There was an odd tube attached to his wrist, and something restricted the movement of his legs and feet, which is when he realises he’s laying horizontally on an uncomfortable bed. His body felt stiff from lasting immobility and there was an extreme pain coming from his abdomen which he couldn’t really remember acquiring in the first place. His blue eyes perused the room again, trying to make sense of what was going on around him. Finding the place void of any other human presence was a bit unnerving, as was the long silence which seemed to stretch to some sort of high beating. The chair next to him was empty and he was alone.

 

All of this happening in mere seconds before confusion was replaced with recognition while his brain provided the answer with a simple word: _hospital_. That was a resolution to his situation he never saw coming, he hadn’t calculated this outcome. 

 

He used his anatomical knowledge to estimate the damage to his abdomen, and the partial removal of the bandage revealed a series of neat stitches that ran for about eight centimetres. Relief washed through him when he found them healing normally, and just as he started wondering exactly how his injuries were received and why did they seem to be at least a few days old, a nurse walked into his room.

 

“Oh, good, you’re awake.” She said, as she checked his vitals on the screen next to his bed. She made a satisfied noise which sent waves of comfort in his direction and smiled. “I’ll bring the doctor right in.” She stepped outside without so much as a _“by your leave”_ and in her place entered a brunette doctor that reminded him of Molly a bit.

 

“You gave us quite a scare there.” She squinted and read his name as she probably had done a thousand times before, with thousand other patients. “Doctor Watson.” She said absentmindedly as she grabbed his chart from the feet of his bed. “The stitches will come off next week, but the scar will stay. Sorry about that.” She came closer and proceeded to check his pupil dilatation. 

 

“Okay.” The soldier responded, still a bit confused at the whirlwind of information coming at him. However, once his brain really caught on with what she had said, he corrected himself shaking the sleep from his mind. “No. Sorry, what happened?” He asked eyeing the IV tube making its way from his wrist to a bag with liquid on his left.

 

“You got stabbed in the abdomen.” Even if John had already gathered that much for himself, it still didn’t make the news any easier to digest. He took a deep breath to fully prepare for the information the woman was going provide. “We had to surgically close the damage, and I’m afraid you lost a few centimetres of intestine.” _That is bad, yet not as bad as it could be_ , the blogger thought.

 

She fiddled with a few chords on the machines and turned to look at him. “But thankfully the knife managed to avoid any other vital organs, and that scarf stopped the blood flow.” The onslaught of memories flooding down on him was brutal: the alley, the knife, the blood, Sherlock. He just hoped he will be able to make a full recovery; if not for himself, then for his friend that will undoubtedly place the blame on himself. “You were out for 6 days. The first four were morphine-induced, the other we just let you sleep through; you were exhausted. Your friends were all just waiting for you to wake up already. ” Even if his head was heavy and his body felt as if he had been trampled by a truck he was glad and grateful that his friends had taken the time to stop by and see how he was.

 

“Have I got any visitors?” He asked as he plucked the two blue pills from the offering hand of the doctor and swallowed them dry. 

 

“Oh yes, plenty.” She replied chuckling. “I’m afraid we had to send them home to return at visiting hours.” He figured it was the best idea since the sun outside had ceased to shine, even if he did felt a bit disappointed. He was a people person, after all. “One of them refused to leave, though.” The look of exasperation at the memory could only mean one person. “A Mr. Holmes; sort of scary bloke, really. Kept making everyone uncomfortable.”

 

“That’ll be Sherlock, he’s like that” The soldier could only imagine how keyed up his impatient friend would have been waiting for him to wake up. And an anxious Sherlock was far from what could pass as an _“easy Sherlock”_. “You probably should let him in before he makes a nurse cry.”

 

“Right.” She walked to the entrance of the room and before departing gave him a genuine smile and said: “You’re on the way to full recovery. Just take your pills and no strain. Good night.”

 

“Thanks.” He replied as he heard the door swing open and close again. When he became aware of the steps coming towards his room he thought about what to say. “So, how many nurses have you already...” But trailed off when he saw that it wasn’t his best friend who was standing in front of him. “Mycroft?” The doctor asked, puzzled at the presence of Sherlock’s older brother.

 

“Good night, John. It’s good to have you back.” Said man stood there. Stoic mask on. Actually looking more tired than John had ever seen him. “How’s the wound doing?” Mycroft asked nonchalantly, but John could sense something was off about his attitude.

 

“Fine.” He replied shortly. “Where’s Sherlock?” Queried John, and if the slight flinch he saw crossing the umbrella-carrying man at the mention of his brother was any indication, the situation was more dire than he first believed.

 

“I trust the staff is treating you well.” The government official blatantly ignored his question and chose any other topic to hold off the inevitable. Twirling his umbrella in his hand and not exactly looking at the patient in the eye.

 

“Mycroft, where’s your brother?” Pressed on the blogger. His breathing becoming quite laboured as worry crawled inside his chest.

 

“I’ll go inform the nurses to check on you.” Mycroft was already turning around to exit the chamber. Fact that did nothing to soothe the blonde’s nerves. If a Holmes was running away from something, it only meant disaster. 

 

John sat up on the bed, ignoring the sharp pain that pierced him when he moved. “Is Sherlock alright?” He asked in a voice that would be considered way too loud for a hospital. He could faintly hear the heart monitor beat faster next to him.

 

The ginger-haired man looked alarmed, discombobulated as to what to do. “Maybe we...” The grip on his umbrella became tighter as he saw several nurses come inside the hospital suite. Hasting to stir the greatly injured man away from giving himself a heart attack.

 

“Where is he!?” He yelled. Knowing that something was definitely wrong, and needing to know exactly _what_ in that instant. The other people in the room grabbed him by the arms as he trashed and tried to rip his IV off in order to stand up and jostle an answer out of the other man. 

 

“Sir, you need to calm down, we don’t want...” One of the male nurses said. As another was already rummaging in the drawer in search for a sedative strong enough to calm him.

 

“John.” Mycroft said with a look of panic on his face. Watching the blogger’s abdomen like a man entranced. The stitches had ripped with all the movement and his side was bleeding again. 

 

Still, the blue-eyed man wouldn’t back down. “God dammit, Mycroft! Where the bloody hell is Sherlock?” Fear running through his veins as blood. Panting from the pain, exhaustion and mostly horror of what could have happened to the most brilliant person he had ever met.

 

The British Government silently muttered. “I don’t know.” And the remorse in his expression was as alarming, as it was disconcerting. Mycroft _had_ to know where his best friend was, he always did. What happened now?

 

The soldier stopped moving completely as an icy cold feeling stole him completely. “What?” He asked incredulous. Hoping against hope that the answer he so adamantly demanded wouldn’t be as horrible as he imagined. 

 

“We can’t find him.” Mycroft answered truthfully, as the needle was preparing to pierce him and carry him into oblivion once again. “He’s gone.” The statement shutting his hope down like a closing casket.

 

 


	10. Chapter 9: The Burying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bur•y•ing: |berēING| noun. 
> 
> The action of hiding or losing something through death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it has been almost as much as it has been for the real canon Sherlock. 
> 
> This chapter has been the hardest thing that I've ever set out to write, yet it has been the best I have made so far and frankly, it's the piece of writing of which I am most proud of.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, and I hope it's worth the wait.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 9: THE BURYING

 

 

 

The days stretched thin and heavy in uncertainty. Time fogged and slurred its way around John in a confusing way. The stupid bed that was supporting his weight became dully painted in the miasma of grey around everything that was not anguish. He once again found himself in a familiar situation in which he could not do a thing but to scratch the skin off his body; and in all honesty, he was tired of it. The only thing he wanted to do was to rip the tube off his wrist, spat the venom they were feeding him, and stand up to find his best friend; or die trying. 

 

It would certainly be a hopeless endeavour. If the detective hadn’t been found by the entirety of the government resources with his genius brother at command, he was most probably not going to be located by a single retired army doctor with a hole on his abdomen. Yet he had to try, since he was the only one who truly understood completely the gravity of the situation. Mycroft was proving to be unable to grasp the fact that there was no possibility whatsoever that his friend had escaped and was hiding in God knows where while he laid on a bed fighting for his life. It just wasn’t logical.

 

The ginger man had explained it to him a myriad of times already, showed him the security camera recordings at his bedside over and over again until every second now inhabited inside the doctor’s mind; still, it was not enough to sway John away fromhis adamant opposition. When he went down, the boffin had to leave him in order to catch the ambulance they both heard passing on the street adjacent to the alleyway. But if the British Government solemnly stated that his friend had never arrived to said ambulance side, then it meant something prevented him from getting there; and John wasn’t sure exactly how he knew, but he was a hundred percent sure that it was Moriarty’s doing. 

 

Despite Mycroft’s insistence on how impossible a return from the death of Sherlock’s greatest nemesis was, the soldier had heard the consulting detective himself say that he had saw him outside their flat once, that he was certain of it. That meant that now John was the sole person that truly believed this was anything more than an escape. That this was straightforward abduction. And it chilled him to the bone to imagine what it meant.

 

Lestrade had been around his hospital room many times. Inviting him to go through the available leads with him. The both of them desperately working to find a way to somehow stumble unto a clue that will put them out of the utter ignorance they were in now. Despite of the fact that nothing really seemed to bring them any closer to a disclosure in the whereabouts of his friend, John felt good with helping, even if he could only do so much considering his condition. He just couldn’t keep staying there and do nothing. 

 

No matter what it took, the doctor was determined to turn every stone until the detective turned up, and he knew that if he wanted what was hiding there to be alive, he had to hurry up. Lost time was a bigger enemy that the consulting criminal has ever been, and if John failed at defeating said nemesis, it likely meant death for Sherlock.

 

He just prayed to whomever might be hearing that they would be able to locate him before Moriarty managed to damage his very constitution, he was aware of how destructive the maniac could be when amused. He dreaded the nights when everyone was gone, when there was nothing left to try for the day and the darkness seemed to widen exponentially with only the beeping of the heart monitor beside his bed to drown out the eerie silence. Unable to move much but for a few little steps, and left to contemplate what the future could hold for the both of them.

 

In those hospital-trapped nights he sometimes got to wonder where the hell was Sherlock, and what could that lunatic be doing with him. He would sink into a dangerous territory of self-injuring speculations where he imagined such horrifying scenarios that the nurses often had to come to his room to verify that he wasn’t on his merry way to completely teetering off the cliff of sanity into a panic attack. 

 

Other times, he would encounter himself having the most life-like nightmares he has had, abominable thoughts of someone pulling out the boffin’s hair and carving out engravings on his skin, terrors so deep which rendered him gasping and sweating once awake. Tearfully demanding reality to be kinder than his worry-induced dreams.

 

However, the frankly disturbing nature of said nocturnal developments was nothing juxtaposed against what he had seen on the man’s face the day he was stabbed. Although in all the years the blogger has known him, he has seen a wide range of emotions dance their way through the self-proclaimed sociopath’s face; he was positive he will never again live something that terrified him more than seeing his best friend succumb to raw fear. To witness the utter helplessness with which he looked at him, as if John might as well had thrusted an arrow between his eyes and decided that twisting it was an exceptional idea; something that reminded him of a dream he only half remembered.

 

The nights he sat up on the sterile white bed, staring listlessly at the linoleum covering at the base of his room; silently chewing at his mind with questions of all sorts of things. Asking the vacuum of the place to give him something to cure the bottled up tempest flurrying inside his brain, to absolve him of the guilt he got every moment he failed to find his friend. The nights he thought about how he couldn’t find Sherlock: Those were decidedly the worst nights.

 

Day brought no real relief to John either, but it did deliver some distraction, if but a little. To submerge oneself into a mindless task such as eating and answering routinely questioning of multiple doctors and nurses allowed him some respite out of the pressing thoughts that haunted him once the sun was down. Though he realised early on that quiet moments will never cease to be filled with doubt until said madman was returned, he welcome the small mercy that was a time to feel like a normal human being, even if he frankly never had been one of those. Pretences are sometimes all one has.

 

His friends often came around to visit. Mrs. Hudson would come and try to smuggle some biscuits for him, even if he always had to remind her he was not allowed to eat those, and they ended up uneaten on his bedside table; which was probably for the best, since to the doctor they probably would have tasted of concern, and there is only so much of that a person can take before breaking down. She would fuss over him, and ask him hundreds of strange question to which he had no hope of ever beginning to know how to answer, but he really appreciated it. 

 

Molly had become a great support as well. For all her culpability-ridden dissociation after the fake suicide, she was proving to be a dependable and loyal friend now; and how he was grateful for that. He could tell the curly-haired man’s disappearance was taking a toll on her too, but she managed to soldier on a lot more than he was able at the moment. Her steady take on the situation and willingness to help in any way she could made him understand why his flatmate trusted her so much: she was reliable.

 

Every day Greg would come, and everyday John would look at him with hopeful, pleading eyes for a change in conditions, only to have that belief crashed by harsh reality as the other shook his head sadly. He knew it was unlikely that they would be able to find him in time, and every day that passed lowered the chances of it ever happening. However, he won’t ever be ready to accept such fact. Lestrade did what he could, as well as he was capable. He made sure to always include John, and no one at the Yard had the heart to complain about it. There was actually a card from them laying around somewhere in his narrow hospital room addressed to him.

 

Mycroft made regular appearances, but they were short and always ended up with the soldier wanting to yell at him for some reason or other. He didn’t, though. The dark circles around the government agent’s eyes and the looser clothes were enough for the blonde to sober up and realise that for all his stoic nature, misplacing his little brother was hell for him too.

 

Still, they were there to support him. Even if they would sometimes look at each other with concern-ridden eyes when they thought he wasn’t looking. They were always there, and it somehow made him feel worse. It hurt to think how he could have this, if everything else did not work. If he could not do a bloody thing about the situation, there still was all of these people here to support him, a consolation slice of compassion in otherwise irreparable circumstances. Meanwhile his friend was probably being tortured for the amusement of a lunatic with an undiagnosed God complex. When he considered that, his energy would drain, leaving him empty and ready to curl up on the bed and not move until the day after. Every time this happened, his friends knew not to disturb him any longer, and silently left him to his own hesitant mourning. Sherlock was utterly alone wherever he was; how would allowing other people to stay close ever be fair of him?

 

He tried to escape the hospital twice. Resolving to go out and look for him himself if needed. Yet he clearly seemed to lack the ability his friend had to disappear. The first time he was found right before he climbed out of the window; and the second, trying to sneak out of the lobby. Whatever the reason, the universe wanted him to stay exactly where he was. Which was highly annoying for him since it was the last thing he desired to do. He wished to be able to actively search for him, to be allowed to put his best efforts and passion towards regaining the ridiculous detective. But more than anything, he wished somebody would find him soon; even if it was not him who did. Because he knew that if the stabbing miraculously hadn’t killed him, losing Sherlock again sure will.

 

* * *

 

 

All the moving parts and odd-edged puzzled pieces just kept jumbling ideas into nebulous theories that went up in flames when held to the unforgiving match of possibility; watching the smoke rings dissolve with every bit of the lasting hope they all had. In days like these it was hard to believe they would ever succeed in their endeavour, but he kept trying anyhow, just because he was stubborn enough to refuse the reality life was showing him: Sherlock was gone, probably for good, and there was nothing else he could do to get him back.

 

The hole in John’s abdomen was closing up slowly, but he was healing, and John counted that as positive; albeit the dichotomy of how his mind was tearing itself into fragments more and more each second that strolled by without a resolution. The uncertainty of not knowing what was happening to his friend was probably a hundred times worse than any other horrifying thing he could feel at the moment. Lestrade was before him, tirelessly explaining something about clues, and hiding places and leads to Mycroft on the other end of the phone, but the blogger was not hearing a word of it; The weight of the fear he experienced crushing him under, collapsing his lungs and blurring his vision. His breath came in short, shallow gasps as panic finally caught up to him.

 

The DI’s eyes went wide once he realised what was happening and he quickly reached forward to catch John by the arm before he toppled over and managed to tear his stitches yet again. The doctor proceeded to sit on his hospital bed with the help of his friend, to try and gain back some of the illusory control he has had these past weeks. It was not an easy task, the attempt to calm down your rebelling body when it seemed to be strung past its boundaries. Specially when John’s heavy heart was taking a toll on his already fickle health after the stabbing, and the fruitless research was draining him whole.

 

“Jesus, John.” The doctor barely heard the other’s voice mutter through the fog of confusion, he felt underwater, ready to sink. Greg kept responding words to the mobile but they all were lost on John, whose only concern at the moment was making sure they kept searching, tirelessly looking to retrieve his friend from the devil’s cunning clutches before it was too late; before all that remained were scattered pieces and remembrances of what he once was. Which applied to both of them.

 

“We can’t give up, Greg.” He said in an impulsive act of despair. Not knowing how else he could help, what could be done to fix the horrible situation. “I won’t.” John commented stubbornly, silently willing the other to recognise his disposition to act on his own should he refuse, then looking up to his friend to find mirrored determination in the inspector’s eyes. 

 

“Me neither.” He answered, detaching the phone from his ear to pay attention to the crumbling man in front of him. “And I’m sure his brother won’t either.” Lestrade assured him. Patting him once on the back to show his unconditional support to the cause. Clearly the detective was also important for the DI, and he too refused to allow this to spiral downwards even more, if feasible. 

 

The soldier felt grateful for their assistance, completely aware that the task would be impossible to execute on his own given the state in which his body seemed to be decidedly unhelpful. However, no matter how hard he tried to keep the jet black thoughts away, he had no fanciful notions of the mission’s expected success. He knew the boffin would not be retrieved by sheer will, albeit the height of its intensity, and that if this was going to end in anything but complete disaster for all of them, something more fierce, almost divine, needed to be employed. 

 

Conclusions like that kept him prisoner in a constant, never-ending vice of emotional turmoil. Forever captured in the cyclic schism between the faith he felt in answer to his denial of the situation and the posterior acceptance that his hope was completely unfounded, almost to the point of being laughable; only for it to start all over again.

 

Greg appeared to have concluded something with Sherlock’s brother on the other side of the line, since now he was handing him the device with a mixed expression of worry and placation. Once he placed it to his ear and Mycroft sensed his attention, the British Government spoke. “I want my brother back as much as you do, Doctor Watson.” He said in that tone of voice that had come to be customary in Mycroft’s speech ever since the mysterious disappearance of his only brother took place a few weeks before. John had never considered the man to be truly heartless, as many are lead to believe by his calculating actions; but now, hearing his resolve crumble in the face of such profound anguish, the blogger found himself in awe of how much the ginger man actually cared for the detective. A worry born out of pure affection rather than just familial obligation. That fact being the force on which the doctor’s anxious concern feeds as fire from wood; for if Mycroft Holmes was showing any emotion, it could mean nothing good for the most important person in John’s life. 

 

“I assure you we are doing our best to uncover his whereabouts.” The British Government confirmed, seeking to pour a bit of calm against the tempest swirling around in the blogger’s chest, which was waiting to fell him into despair with a single blow.

 

“Find him.” Was the only thing said soldier could choke out in that moment of childish vulnerability he felt, as if his friend had been nothing more than imaginary and was threatening to leave from his memories once again, to step into oblivion never to return. The blonde was sure he would not survive a world without his best friend again. “Just... find him.” He pleaded; to the other man, to God, or to himself, he was not sure.

 

“I will.” Mycroft said. Making it as much a personal promise as a duty. None of them will let the matter go, ever. Seeking to the ends of the world if necessary. No matter how good the detective appeared to be at dropping off the face of the earth. They were going to find him, in whatever state he may be.

 

 

And so it was, the search went madly on and its resolution kept escaping from their grasp every time, slithering its way through their adamant fingers time and time again. Which was very bad news for steel believers like John, the strain of getting up in the morning and forcing himself to keep hoping even when the situation was worse than futile somehow made everything harder.

 

The doctor had been allowed to go back to the flat, with the condition that he would not participate in any physically strenuous activity. He complied and was glad to rid himself of the hospital completely, but being back home brought a whole other sort of man-made hell that he had not spared a second to anticipate in his sorrow. The silence was deafening, deeper and broader in a way that it haven’t been even after the detective’s supposed death. He would sit in his chair and try to imagine a way in which he could fix the entire chaos. The seemingly mocking eye sockets of the skull on the mantle made him desire to fling it across the room, yet he restrained every time knowing fully well that having to pick up broken bone off the floor would only exacerbate his distress. Days blurred together as John floated inside a surreal sea of worry and sickness, decidedly ignoring the insistent knocks inside his brain. 

 

The blogger viciously circled such frightening scenarios in a terrifying game of mind-juggling. Ignoring everything else but them, up to the point where any other thing that was once important in his life was being violently discarded while he refused to put the matter to rest; even for a second. He did not know how he managed not to go out on the street and scream himself hoarse. The thing that really scared John most was ending up with nothing more than a taxidermic form of his friend, desolated and so very hollow inside. He honestly had no idea what he would do if that was the case. 

 

His friends came and went, always bringing support, but never delivering what the soldier wished. He was aware he was probably being unfair to them, since it was not their fault his best friend had vanished into thin air; still he could not bring himself to come out of the addictive misery he felt, not when he knew that somewhere a demon was closing his machiavellian claws around the boffin, ripping up chunks of his humanity and they couldn’t seem to arrive on time. 

 

Which is why when the call came the doctor almost didn’t answer. Just trying to drown out the voice of Mrs. Hudson’s attempt to coax him into eating something for a change. She came hurriedly, anxiously extending a phone for him to grab with an expression the blonde did not care enough to try to read. 

 

“It’s the D.I. Lestrade.” She said, and John hesitantly gripped the mobile, wondering if he should just hang up and save himself the pity-ridden conversation. “It’s about Sherlock.” All thought of ending the call flew out of his mind as the words registered. 

 

“Lestrade, what is it?” The doctor asked expectantly. Willing time to go faster and just give him the resolution he had pleaded for. An end to the nightmare he so devotedly desired. “We found him, John.” Greg answered, and John felt as if the weight of the world was miraculously lifted off his shoulders. “Thank heaven.” He breathed. His friend was coming home and together they would finally put an end to that maniac.“How is he?” The soldier asked.

 

However, when seconds that felt like hours passed before the inspector replied he began to worry. “John,” Was they only thing that the voice on the other line could tell him regarding the detective. “Greg, how is he?” He insisted, panic weaving into his veins once more, creeping from the edges of his vision. His mantra repeating over again in his head, more of a prayer now than it had ever been: _Please, don’t be dead_.

 

Lestrade cleared his throat and the blogger mentally kicked himself for not realising how distressed the other man sounded until now, too busy surrendering to treacherous hope before knowing the whole facts. When the D.I. finally spoke it did nothing to quench his apprehension, actually making everything worse. 

 

“You should come.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ever since that demonic psychopath had come into their lives, John had had that horrible sense of dread washing over him repeatedly, making him anxious of an unforeseen event even before he actually suspected something cataclysmic would happen. The criminal entered their tranquility in a subtle but cunning way at first, secretly poisoning each bit of their existence with one touch until their whole lives had gone stale without their knowledge. They kept frantically spinning, trying to get ahead on a game they ignored was already lost. The falling form of his best friend and the freezing cold headstone made John lament not realising the situation had gotten so out of control before it was too late; just before they had lost everything. He mourned, and he suffered, and he grieved, yet the detective came back, and they all basked in a unquestioned victory, glad to have abandoned to oblivion all grievances from before; but they celebrated too soon. Fatally mistaking survival for deliverance until those laurels crumbled away in ashes and they were plunged into an even worse purgatory where nothing would ever be the same again.

 

The doctor knew he would be paying for all those liberties they took the moment he set a foot out of the cab. He had been kept in the dark about the shape in which his friend was, but he doubted it could be any good. The surging anger he felt at the unjust life had him reeling for a second or two, not really knowing how he could feel enraged instead of afraid. The place at which he arrived was relatively big, but certainly not enough to look suspicious; in fact, the uncovered blue-framed windows and the rusted doorbell were all you needed to falsely deem this house as ordinary, almost boringly so, and this made the already existing choler inside the soldier flare up more violently at the sight of such harmless-looking residence in which were probably casted the worst acts human cruelty could conjure. 

 

He did not run inside, desperate as one would imagine in his need for knowledge of the torture his lost friend had endured. Instead, he walked slowly, mindlessly trying to put off for as long as he could what he knew would be an unpleasant confirmation of his fears. Up until then, he had so fervently desired to just get the detective back, but now he was utterly scared of what he may find once he entered that house.

 

Still, his feet dragged him inside, passing through the busy police that was already gathering clues and evidence from the scene where the consultant was found. The haunting sound of the ambulance siren played on the background as he floated through in a haze. Sooner that he thought, the doctor found himself in a dim-lit corridor, and people were rushing around him, trying to figure out exactly what had happened. Several doors outlined the hallway until it turned to the right and becamesteady stairs that faded out of his line of vision. He approached those steps cautiously, not really having any idea where to go, until he saw a doctor conversing with a man clad in an expensive suit gripping an umbrella as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded to reality; and John empathically would say it very well could be.

 

“How is he?” The blogger couldn’t help but ask as the doctor was turning away from Mycroft. The expression the other gave him let him know that he was definitely not going to like whatever he was going to hear. He felt as if a guillotine was hanging above all of their necks, and the smallest of words would send it down, snapping them in pieces. “Is he in there?” He asked impatiently, motioning to the door awaiting at the bottom of the stairs.

 

“He’s not well, John.” The taller man replied, letting distress paint each word as it was casted upon fearful ears. Said blogger did not know what to make of their meaning, he could only imagine what his frightened mind could supply, which was not helping calming him down.

 

“Tell me.” He said stubbornly, as he tried to find any clue that could anticipate him the answer of his friend’s state. He was aware the response was going to tear a big hole in his life, but at the moment, the cloud of doubt needed to be cleared once and for all. He accepted he had to know what he was fighting against, because there was no way he was going to be spared of that war; he was a soldier, and Sherlock was the best man he had ever known, he refused to come out of this battle without him.

 

Mycroft schooled his features once more as he began to go over the devastation inflicted to his little brother. Still, John could recognise a Holmes’ facade of indifference against any sort of feelings swiftly, he had seen that exact same expression on the detective too many times to not know it when he saw it. “The paramedics have counted four cracked ribs, a swollen shoulder and some healed wounds.” He started. “Severe malnutrition and dehydration, several deep fresh lacerations, a slight fever and,” After this, the government official took a brief moment to continue, as if it was really difficult for him to say the next part. “and considerable evidence of heroine and cocaine use.”

 

The doctor had dreaded that case, in which the great progress that Sherlock had made would be snatched from him by some maniac with an agenda, yet he felt mildly relieved to know the detective was alive, and that none of the injuries were long lasting. If he had known what the real damage was, he would not have been that quick to be assuaged. 

 

He takes confident strides towards the room which contains the man he has honestly missed more than he would care to admit, only to be stopped by an intruding umbrella blocking his way. “I’m afraid there’s something else.” The government official states, the lines appearing in his face spoke of a defining armageddon; tidal waves big enough to flood their heads with endless thoughts of darkness. “I won’t let him see you.” Mycroft says, as if that were enough to derail him in his quest.

 

“Why the hell not?” John asked venomously, he did not have the time to be playing at power with Sherlock’s brother of all people, and if said man believed, even for one second, that he would harm the boffin in any way, he was not nearly as skilled at reading people as he thought.

 

The grip in the umbrella got tighter as its owner delivered the sour information, not quite short in compassion given the dire situation in which they were all trapped.“We believe he’s experiencing a strong psychotic episode.”

 

That was not even close to what the blonde had been expecting, “What?” He heard himself ask, terrified in the way that only a man who has had very intimate encounters with catastrophe can.

 

“He is barely conscious, but keeps attempting to scrape the skin off his forearms and hands.” The condemning declarations kept flying freely out of the other’s mouth as John was in the brim of panic himself, clutching the wall next to him and trusting it to support the stance that he could no longer hold. “He’s also under the impression that you are dead and that he is the one who killed you.”

 

However, said information jostled the blogger’s insides. Reworking his guts into belligerence and leaving fear for posterior moments. Putting aside every profane vulnerability and dissolving away everything that scared the hell out of him. “Well I’m clearly not, so excuse me but-” He tried to walk past the offending object, but Mycroft was steady in his position.

 

“No.” The taller man said, with as much certainty as he possessed. Clearly repressing the urge to physically control the situation, a need very strong, only rivalled by the doctor’s own.

 

“Let me through, Mycroft.” The blonde got out through gritted teeth. His shaking hand reached to swat away the umbrella. 

“No.” However, the ginger did not appear to be swayed, going as far as stopping the other by grabbing his elbow. Unwilling to set in motion the consequences they would have to face if the soldier stepped through that door now.

 

“I said: let me through, or I swear to God-” Everything that had happened ever since his friend started having those bizarre visions had been jarring his nerves violently, and the surplus of weariness and trouble has left him deeply wounded, heaven only knew what the devil may have done with Sherlock. “Look, he’s in there: alone in a crowd of strangers, and he’s probably terrified. If he sees me-”

 

“It could prove very detrimental to his mental health.” He stated, and John just refused to believe that, not a single word of it made any sense. There was not a slight possibility that Sherlock would not benefit from a friendly face after all that loneliness, even if it made him confused, it could very well be the first act of kindness he experiences in a long time. Yet, his brother did not seem to see eye to eye about that. “If he sees you now, given his current state, no one is able to predict what he could do, or what that would trigger inside his mind.”

 

“But Moriarty had him, for God’s sake-” The breakdown was coming, the blonde could feel it. He could recognise that Mycroft was hiding something else from him, something even bigger, and he was certain that it would set ablaze whatever ashes were left from his soul. The government official wasted no time on providing said information.

 

“The room was completely empty when they found him, the door was unlocked and open, as was the house.” John struggled to make sense of what could that possibly mean. Sherlock was supposed to be trapped and he had been working beneath the assumption that kidnapping was the definite scenario. “Whatever happened here, Dr. Watson; he had every possibility to leave.” Mycroft said, trying to drive into the other why it was so important that they tread lightly, any rash movement or impulsive action could damage the detective forever. “I know you may despise me for this, but right now I’ve got to do what’s best for my brother’s psyche.” He added, firm enough to not leave any doubt of the decision’s finality. Clearly willing to go through with it whether John was on board or not. “Not to worry, I’ll keep you informed.” He finished with sympathy. Taking one last apologetic look at the doctor and then turning around to enter the room in which they had found the boffin.

 

It stroke the doctor how truly mad is that life could play out so unfairly to even those who attempt to do right by their peers, how the world could be filled by such poisoned souls just craving to see everything around them corrode. He pondered this as he heard loud and rushed noises coming from inside the cellar, watching a slightly burned end on the corridor’s carpet.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Consuming despair invaded the doctor the first time he saw Sherlock after he was found. Heavily sedated and laid unconscious on a clinic bed he seemed so much younger than he was, but the bruises and bandages highlighted just how much he was still suffering, even while sleeping. Almost a week later, John was still purely allowed to catch a glimpse of him through the small window on the door to his room; and only when there was absolute certainty that the detective would not wake up and see him. 

 

John understood why they had to do this, yet it killed him inside to know that his best friend believed him dead, even if he wasn’t. He had past experience with that, and all the horrors he had seen in war could never compare to the pain and hollowness that his loss had given him. The soldier may selfishly not like it, but he would do it, for Sherlock. He would stay away until they were sure the boffin would benefit from his presence and not a moment sooner. 

 

That is to say that such sacrifice did not mean he would not be there whenever he was needed. It was not easy, of course; this “hospital” did not necessarily encourage visiting; and the nurses, although already very much accustomed to him and his day-long stays, were not precisely happy to see him aimlessly wander the premises everyday. Still, the soldier felt he had no choice, he was physically unable to stay away. While Sherlock was gone, he had vowed to never leave the musician’s side again should they ever found him, and now that they had, he refused to back down on that promise come hell or high water. Let him burn or drown, but he won’t abandon his friend to his fate. Never again.

 

John knew deep down that Sherlock was clearly displaying some distressing symptoms whenever he was conscious, yet he denied the diagnosis they provided. No matter how many times Mycroft listed the markers to him with an exasperated expression, the doctor simply rejected the mere idea that his friend could be anywhere near as bad as they made him to be; the detective was not like that, they might as well be the ones who are crazy.

 

However, if the soldier were being true to himself, he would say what the british government told him sounded exactly like what they were describing, and that’s what terrified him the most. How accurate the conclusion was, yet how very wrong it _had_ to be: because Sherlock was not demented, and he did not really need to be on constant watch by the nurses. 

 

Clearly, the blonde’s typical synderesis was proving lacking in the face of the violent assault that his friend’s predicament had provided. Clouding his objective reasoning with what said friend would designate as crippling sentiment; if he were still himself, that is. John was stuck in an unusual state between mourning the loss of what his friend used to be, and questioning if his old self would ever be returned from the ashes once it was all done.

 

Lies and delusions were enough to break a man, never mind the source of said illusions; and if the metaphorical lobotomy inflicted on the boffin’s brain by past events had been tampered and his recollection of reality shattered, the doctor worried immensely if there would even be anything left of him to salvage now that they had finally managed to exhume him from that hell. 

 

Shadow figures, and whispered words teared Sherlock’s fragile psyche everyday, while his instinctual responses were edging him more and more towards a definite diagnosis from which they would not escape. Somehow, the detective had convinced himself of the army doctor’s demise --or maybe someone had granted him that favour-- and was managing to rip the final rift between him now, and the life he used to live in the process. John wondered who had put those thoughts in his head, all the while Sherlock struggled against invisible threats. Both broken by the separation that the sheer codependency their shared lives caused; taking turns at coming apart thread by thread.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock can’t stand the dim corner in the room. It’s not dark, not really; but if he sits in the fixed chair or lays down on the bolted bed, he’s not able to see it in its entirety; and that makes him uneasy, enough to keep him sitting on the floor by the other wall, where he has perfect vision of everything. Ever since they confined him to this chamber, he has not been able to take his eyes of it, keeping it always in the corner of his vision. He does not know what is it that troubles him that much, why it affects him; all he know is that he is terrified of it for some reason. 

 

The little pale yellow tablets they give him seem to stare at him in mocking stillness, always, without fail. He somehow feels oddly betrayed by them, as if their sole existence disproved that of the detective’s own; sending him swiftly spiralling into oblivion. He had no desire of ever feeling complete like he used to, only wanting to remain in shattered fractions of his self, sharp enough to harm that which had broken him in the first place. Of that skeletal demon that had made the most of his intrinsic acute fear of heights that has always been embed in his soul in prophecy since his very genesis, and had let him fall brutally in backwards motion. Letting all of those spectres come out of hiding. 

 

The catalyst of his misery had come into his life to transform him, to make him evolve into something unrecognisable; to ruin him. Then he was left untethered, alone in his roaming; forced to sail unknown dark waters on his own. With rain chipping loose whatever was left of him in the process, so much that he now refused to be ashes pulled back into form. 

 

Or maybe Moriarty never deconstructed anything, maybe he has always been like this. 

 

He cannot see beyond what his treacherous mind allows him, and he is always in the never-ending wait of the moment when he will be able to breathe again. Wondering whether he will be able to escape this sick entrapment that has forced him deeper into a hell he loathed. His brother seemed to believe he belonged there, amongst all other broken things, but he’s unaware that he has locked him up with a vicious ghost.

 

He can’t really see him, but he feels his presence everywhere he looks. No matter how far he could be, it kept finding him. It is there, in every corner of the room, watching him with dead eyes and an invisible smile. Making the hair on his neck stand on end every time he gives his back to the quarters; he has since resorted to moving backwards against the wall, until no empty space is left unattended, until there’s no place for _him_. But it never works. There are words, and sounds, and laughter liberating from the ceiling and the furniture, and he doesn’t know what any of it means.

 

He fails to understand how can anybody else not know he’s there, how do they not hear what _he_ whispers in his ear in the dead of the night. His voice coming out of the darkness and into the labyrinth of his brain; those same eerie words that have tormented him for a long time now. Swirling in the air around him until he can see their madness; and then taking with them his entire life, leaving him wide open.

 

He feels as if someone had emptied him and had put something - _someone-_ else inside. Whatever it is, it moves like him, talks and walks like him, but he doesn’t know them; and it is mesmerising. It sends him reeling with rage each time he is made aware of it. He broke his therapeutic mirror the first time he saw _him_ ; smashing his fist over and over again till the crimson of his blood joined that of his best friend’s on the planes of skin in his hands, and all the lines of the skewed impersonator in the reflexion were gone. 

 

The intruder’s heartbeat in his chest was constricting, fighting for dominance over the bag of bones he called body. He felt the shadow twisting within him, chocking him from the inside and he longed to expel it. The constant haunting knot in his throat kills him a bit more each time. He’s desperate, and he can’t stand it a second longer. He scratches at his stomach, set on ripping out the spiders he feels crawling around inside of him; digging his nails hard over taut muscle hoping to be able to reach them, but he can’t. They are still there.

 

His hands then came to his own mouth, almost without his consciousness; trying to get a hold of the _thing_ from the top. Desperately pushing his fingers down his throat while fat tears fell relentlessly across his cheeks. His body coughing in an attempt to spit out the poison that had him drowning from the inside. Still, it was all futile, and soon doctors and nurses were flooding the room, shocked by the flagellation; and tried to get him to stop violating himself, not realising it was not himself he was fighting against.

 

The spectre was everywhere, attached to him like a lifeline. Digging his claws on the detective’s back, and his lithe dark form trailing behind him. The musician thought he could handle it. Alone. On his own. He even managed to banish it a few times, gaining a bit of blessed silence in his turmoil. But something always happened. Something that would invite him in again; or more accurately, that would show the detective he never left. The moment the curly-haired man stared down at his plastic plate of newly-made alphabet soup and found the words “sinner man” spelled across the surface over and over again, he was sent in a fit of violent horror, spilling the food everywhere and forcing the doctors to sedate him so they could treat him for burns on his hands.

 

Sherlock did not know how it had found him, or where did it come from. He just woke up one day and there he was, like he had always been there. He didn’t even know what it wanted, but one thing he knew for certain: he was cursed.

 

* * *

 

 

John limped a bit as he walked, making sure not to disturb the wound on his side. He roamed for a few minutes, and then came to sit on the bench near the front entrance. Like always. He absently admired the vegetation around him and switched to his right hand the machine coffee he was holding which did nothing to cure the bitter taste in his mouth. The days were getting longer again, and the anxious feeling about what the future would hold made the knot in his stomach swell. He was undeniably grateful his friend was alive, but this half-hearted resolution was eating away at his insides; not only was the detective sequestered in that room, the doctor could do absolutely nothing to change the situation. Net even as much as talking to the other man. The passive role was the worst thing into which to thrust a soldier, and it was threatening to leave him hollow inside.

 

He was brought out of his musings by a familiar figure arriving at his side. He looked up to see Molly as she seated herself next to him on the bench. He was thankful for her taking the time to visit, as she oft to do.

 

“How is he?” She asked as she fidgeted with the hem of her jumper. Knowing fully well that the answer coming was not going to be a pleasant one, if not unchanged since the last time she was here.

 

“He’s still unresponsive to the treatment.” The soldier replies, with a tone of voice that sounded highly detached even to his own ears, finally comprehending his friend’s preferred stoicism against the sentimentality that makes the pain that much more real, more _yours_. Molly put a hand on his upper arm in support and silently encouraged him to continue. “He’s... not himself.” He says finally; completely aware of the gross understatement that was. His friend was actually still trapped in that world of fiction, one which the doctor suspected was more real than any of them thought. Never mind what the others may believe, John was certain the detective was somehow living a slight variation of the true world, maybe it was just that they did not understand it.

 

“So that’s a _No_ in telling him.” She stated carefully, clearly also disappointed with the situation; John stared at her in mild confusion, too caught up inside his own reflections to follow what his friend was implying. “That you’re alive.” She clarified slowly. The soldier knew that everyone had been considerably careful with him since the news about Sherlock being “lost” reached him, but he had no time to dwell on that frustration at the moment, the detective’s condition swallowing up the entirety of his headspace. 

 

“Yes.” He answers truthfully, trying not to let the apprehension in his face betray him. He was aware that everyone around him knew he was hurting with guilt of not being able to let Sherlock know he hadn’t died, but he did not wish for them to know how much it was actually affecting him. Preferring instead to preserve the fallacy. “Not until the symptoms start to recede.” He adds and watches as Molly twists the end of her ponytail nervously, choosing to concentrate on that mundane habit to gather courage to utter the next destructive words. “He had another episode.”

 

Molly whirls her body towards him in surprise, anxiously waiting for an answer. Not quite knowing how to act. “What happened?” She was worried, John could tell as much, and he dreaded having to lay these news on her, or at all. “One of the nurses found him half-asphyxiated with his pillow. He was apparently trying to silence something.” He sighs. “They believe it’s actually getting worse.”

 

The distinction in pronouns is not lost on the pathologist, so she asks what she suspects is a very crucial question. “They?”

 

John looks affronted for a second, not expecting Molly to pick up on that, yet she was clearly more observant than he gave her credit for. “You know what I think, Molly.” He says solemnly.

 

“John-” She starts, knowing fully well where this conversation was headed, but gets interrupted. “He’s not lying.” The blonde deadpans, his mood changing drastically, as it often did when someone questioned that fact.

 

“Not intentionally, but...” The brunet argued, hoping to avoid a confrontation, many had already been had at expenses of this subject and she did not wish to watch her friend naively stick to a stubborn belief; no matter how comforting the notion may be.

 

“I don’t believe this is all in his head,” He says with belligerence. “I don’t care what everyone else thinks, if he says he sees something, it’s there; and I believe him.” He had to rely on that, since he knew if the detective spiralled down into madness, he would soon follow. As always.

 

“John...” Molly says softly, trying to placate him, as if he were blindingly pursuing an invisible clue and making up patterns where there were none. “I went back there.” He supplies quickly, attempting to let her see that his trust in Sherlock’s visions was not unfounded, pulled out of grief like they thought.

 

“Back where?” The brunet looks confused by the apparent non-sequitur. Narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to understand.

 

“Back to where they found him,” The soldier explains quickly. “And I got around looking-” Molly interrupts abruptly. “How did you get in?” She looks upset now, as if knowing exactly how he accomplished it and disapproving completely.

 

“I broke in.” He adds dismissively, not wanting to dwell on the unimportant details. 

 

“John, I don’t think...” The doctor could see the talk coming, of how he should not put his hopes too high, and that he had to think rationally about this, and how they all understood. “What you’re doing is not healthy.” She says, and it was all the blonde could do not to shout, he saw concern painted all over her face but it made him mad with rage to be questioned about the decisions he took in order to save Sherlock; from anything. To find something that could fix him.

 

“It’s okay, Molly. Just-” He replied absentmindedly, he needed to compartmentalise. To put everything that was not his friend out of his mind in order to be able to confuse despair with courage, otherwise he was certain he would crack under the pressure. He frantically reached for something inside his pocket.“I found something.”He explains, searching for the item that had become the resolution of his faith. “I went back there to see if there was something they had missed, just like Sher-” He stopped mid-sentence, still not sure on being able to say his name without breaking. “Like _he_ always says, and I found this.” He retrieved his evidence, and brought it close to Molly so she could see.

 

“What is it?” The brunet asked, her frustration swiftly replaced with interest, looking at the black plastic rectangle, small circle in the middle. She ran her finger through the surface and pressed lightly on the button, but nothing happened.

 

“Not sure, doesn’t seem to work.” John stated, clearly having exhausted his options. “But why would something like this be there if Sherlock were just hiding?” He asked cryptically, his jaw set and his eyes challenging, daring her to find any other explanation for it other than their friend’s word.

 

“I don’t know, John.” She sighed, confusingly turning the device as suspicion dawned on her honest face. “I honestly _don’t know._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

It was coming for him. That was all the detective knew.

 

It was coming for him and he had no idea what to do about it. Sitting alone in the far side of the bed, hearing the walls groan and suffocate every other thought inside his head, he could feel the threat in his bones. A devil’s hand wrapping tighter and tighteraround his wrists, with nothing he could do to get it off. The time was approaching, he knew it, and he felt terrified. It was almost there, the wraiths had already showed up in morbid omen, and there was nothing more he could do. No attempt to hide away his soul was going to salvage him. Heaven couldn’t help him now. _He_ was coming, and he was sure he would not survive the day once that happened.

 

He was desperate in simple certainty; afraid that with mere proximity, any false move could awaken the beast now, and then all would be reduced to ashes. There was no word in any language to describe this fear; the way _it_ scared him. 

 

The forceful knocks in the door did not take long to arrive. Pounding violently at the door. He wrapped his sickly thin arms around his frame and trembled. He shut his eyes tightly, refusing to open them to a horrible reality. The banging outside became stronger every time, until it ate up the air around him completely. There was only a fickle and fragile door between him and his reaper, and once that was gone, so will be everything else.

 

It was coming for him. The never-ending deafening noise was becoming a dull throbbing, and soon the fumes were crawling from under the barricade. Climbing and twisting around his legs. Rushing inside and consuming him.

 

He stood up, defiant to the end against his relentless attacker. He flung his mattress aside, and managed to totally wreck the whole room in terror. Hoping to be able to exorcise those venomous feelings from the world; to harm it until it bled out all of its malice. 

 

A couple of forms entered the room in a hurry, but he could not recognise what they were inside his haze. They enveloped his arms with their vines, and soon enough he was trapped in a soft white prison that engulfed him mercilessly, unable to move much of his upper limbs. They were stirring him to perch on something, whispering a word into his ears. A name, though he could not remember to whom it belonged. “I’m not who you think I am.” He would say, but the figures were stubborn, whirling him out of the room and turning around to return back inside.

 

For a second he is left alone, and the long corridor before him stretches out and advances until he is no longer sure if it really has an ending. The staccato noise inside the room keeps on going, while he is outside confined with bizarre chains. The air entering his lungs does a poor job of maintaining him alive; making it seem instead like reanimating an already dead body into action. Stilted, unnatural, and not slightly ‘living’.

 

Suddenly, a strange wheeling motion starts, and he realises he is moving. Advancing forwards with mild velocity; fanning his already unnerved state. He sees the doors pass beside him in confusion, and starts to ponder if he was at last being taken to his true final destination. Wondering, not for the first time, if he had finally died, and if there would be no climbing out from the pine box this time.

 

It was coming for him. In one way or the other, the angels would eventually deliver him in definite scorn; would throw him to the wolves and let the blemish from the world be devoured from his bones. Ice cold claws spearing their way through his arteries, eating out his heart, if he even had one left. The shadowy, eye-less form chasing him will ultimately catch up. 

 

No form of fear would help his situation in any way; but when a man is on his way to meet the devil, he is allowed a tiny respite from bravery. The movement became faster and he knew the time was almost up. It was coming for him in giant strides, and his jaw trembled with despair. Diseased with all the venom he had been fed during his entrapment, acquainted with such darkness, he was helpless to stop it from boiling over inside him. After that, only bad things could follow.

 

“I did warn you that one day you’d wear one of these.” A strong voice said behind him, and it was like a beacon swiftly taking him back into unforgiving, garish light. Like a sword pushing through cartilage and arteries, waking him up in alarm. Rendering him paralysed.

 

“But don’t worry,” The phantom voice intoned, and he could feel it breathing on his neck. He recognised that pollution. He had heard it a million times before; sometimes he thought he would never rid himself of it. Catatonic with foreboding, he remained sitting. “Crazy is a good look on you.” 

 

He squeezed out the tears gathering in his eyes, taking shaky breaths. There could not be anything more distressing for him than a finger savagely prodding at his wounds. A joker smile ridiculing that which he could not help. His fragmented mind not able to conjure anything past chocking-fear. “Don’t you think,” The cruel voice asked, slowly placing both of its hands over his shoulders, finger by finger. “Sinner-man?” 

 

He felt himself being physically shoved out of the chair, landing harshly on the floor. He was sprawled, looking up into the monster’s eyes. Helpless to do anything but stare as his haunter laughed joyously. The words still whirling inside his mind were tearing pieces off him like deadly leaches, chipping away his fear and replacing it with something more to suit their fancy; they brought out something unrecognisable inside him. He knew it was coming for him, but suddenly accepting his fate did not feel like an option anymore. And right then he made himself a promise, that he wouldn’t allow death to take him without retribution for all that corpse had done to him. For all that he had made him become.

 

He shook his limbs around, until he was kneeling, gathering any strength that he could have left. A few paces away, the other man watched amusedly; clearly having expected him to make one last attempt. Whatever curse he had planned to carry out, the younger man vowed to take him down with him.

 

Once he came to know what was trapping his arms, it was not that difficult to work his way out of it. He tossed the offending garment aside and stood up. A stark, revenant figure against the light at the end of the hall. Climbing out of the pit in which the other had attempted to bury him. Grown out of the darkness, having found inside that against his disease, no cold hole would ever be deep enough.

 

It was coming for him, and it honestly frightened him; but scared animals are a dangerous thing. He took some steps before realising he was doing it, unsuspectingly approaching him to the man that still had him captured despite being free of reins. His battered body moving only with one sole purpose, a vindictive force driving him forward until he found that despite how consumed he was, it was easier to keep going than to stop. 

 

“What will you do now, then?” The other said. Spreading his arms in a faux attempt to make himself look vulnerable. Taunting anything that could be left of the adversary he once challenged. In his eyes, the figure before him somehow lacking after all; independently from how joyful it had been for the spectre to break him, the detective had gone pernicious like rotten food. His whole essence erased from memory like the ephemerality of breath on a mirror.

 

The victim had no concrete recollection of his former self, yet he missed it. Viciously blaming his captor for snatching it away from him so mercilessly. Killing everything he used to be, and turning him into that beast; angry and desperate. Condemned to pay Lazarus’ debts for eternity, yet with no desire of resurrection. Over him, had already been casted the the worst punishment he could conjure. Because at the end of the day, what greater sentence could be dealt than life for those who have no desire of living it?

 

Coming back from his dissociation, at least in a small level, he noticed in his hand the final proof that he had foreseen this, and had somehow managed a way to unknowingly prepare himself for it. He knew it was coming for him, he could feel it getting closer, and all he could do was keep going. Stop looking back to the thing chasing him and just charge onwards, until all was done or he was taken down by this death that he was dying. It was already too late to put himself together again. 

 

The other figure must have seen the shard of broken mirror in his grip, digging its sharps edges into the skin on his hand and dripping a crimson trail on the linoleum just like it had when the detective had first hidden it inside his pillow. The other laughed. “Is that what you plan to do?” He queried, with a confident calm that spoke only of the hollowness inside him. “You are going to kill me?” The demon smirked and took a step closer in provocation, urging the other to act, to finally do what he had set out to do.

 

The silver-gazed man left the question unanswered, but kept hurling his carcass in his direction. “You made me who I am.” He demanded with his eyes portraying a height of hysteria previously unknown to the both men present. Volatile in unrestraint. 

 

“See,” The criminal uttered in disappointment. “That’s where you are wrong, Sherly.” He stuffed his hands in the stolen nurse ensemble he was wearing. Grinning in a way that left no doubt in the detective’s mind about his intentions. “You’ve always been like this.” He declared, and for the first time in his whole life, the curly-haired man believed it completely. Whether it was a lie or a fable did not matter, the grief had just made the feeling stronger, despite his state of total weakness.

 

He advanced one last time, letting the earthquake he felt beneath them shake the world around him; not caring if after all this was over everything would be converted into rubble. Since survival was no longer a viable option for him, he cared little for consequences and ramifications. He had been afraid for so long, agonising about what his universe would be like following the floods, and the wild fires, and heaven’s abandonment. But there would be no more running, except towards that which had left him as a model of demolition. It was coming for him, and nothing would stop it now. He was as good as dead; and had been since he saw that blade go through his friend’s abdomen. 

 

“Yes, I am.” He admitted truthfully. And he could feel it, going out from inside him: It was no longer coming for him. _It_ was already here.

 

The younger man reached the other, grabbing him by the shirt with a loathing so strong it menaced to consume him. Jostling him and finding little resistance until he sent both of them tumbling to the ground. They struggled in the altercation, the detective wrapping a shaky hand over the other’s throat and squeezing. The lunatic below him grinned still, not fazed in the slightless at seeing this honest display of violence, much less about having it inflicted in his person. Almost admiring the thing he had created from the remains of a self-consumed corpse. The satisfaction in his expression was almost enough to send Sherlock reeling; it repulsed him nearly as much as he was sickened by his own self. 

 

His hand on the other’s neck slackened a bit, while another twisted possibility whispered dark things in his ear. He dropped his gaze to his other hand, and watched the piece of mirror blinking back at him. He could do it; by any means he _should_ do it. 

There was not a thing he could loose anymore, and he longed for that revenge. To take the scary monster under his bed and frighten him in return.

 

His arm brought the shard closer and he placed it near the other’s stomach. His enemy reached out and stopped his force, with only a token opposition. If the boffin kept pushing he would have no problem in overcoming the obstacle and slicing open his opponent's transport. The temptation was great, and he knew he would probably give in at the end. The figure beneath him did not deserve any less. He had taken everything. Yet no attempt he could make would return them now. Not even in exchange for himself. No bargain would ever work out on his favour again.

 

The two men stay locked like that a moment, alone in that secluded area of the psychiatric clinic. Just the two of them, both holding tightly with bloodied hands to that broken piece of mirror between them. Frozen as if time had suddenly stopped breathing, waiting to see which monster devoured the other. 

 

It’s true that no one in the world is able to completely choose what cards are dealt to them by life, yet anyone can decide how to play; even choose _not_ to play at all. There was no way he could win now, victory would in reality be a defeat either way, the boffin wasn’t sure he wanted to keep fighting anymore. Moriarty wanted him to be this, _he_ wanted to be this. And there was only one thing to do in a scenario like that.

 

“Do it.” The criminal in the floor whispered. Smiling and inviting him, ready to sacrifice himself for this captivating transformation. No matter how many times the detective had envisioned this moment, the suspended motion and silence were very far from comforting. Like a string tensed and poised, just awaiting to be struck.

 

In the end, there was never any other option.

 

He surrendered, with shortness of breath he chose defeat. He let the inevitability of the situation sweep him away in its current. Because if there was one thing he could still do, was deciding to stop attempting to win. To kill just to save someone. The other wanted him to burn in hell, so he embraced it; covered himself in gasoline and let the immolation begin. He did what any other sinner-man would do: Sin.

 

Summoning the last strength he possessed, he grabbed one of the criminal’s shoulders for leverage and held tightly the sharpness between their fingers. With a swift motion, Sherlock reversed their positions, with him now on the floor, and pushed the broken mirror into his own flesh, stabbing himself in the abdomen. 

 

* * *

 

 

There seemed to be a commotion coming from the ground level of the clinic. People rushing about and yelling things to each other. Molly gave John a very worried and clearly puzzled look as both of them jumped out of the bench and hurried near the building. 

 

The trees in the garden obstructed most of the view, yet John could see some figures clearly trying to locate something. Someone was barking out directions for the others to follow, in order to accomplish the still unknown purpose of the staff. Molly squeezed his arm in support, then started running towards the front gates, apparently wanting to be aware of what the crisis was.

 

As the soldier started moving after her, he felt an eerie emptiness inside his left hand. It was then when he realised he must have dropped the device: His only clue of what could be happening to his best friend. John wanted to know the situation, but he had a priority now -the same priority as always, really- and he would not discard something that could help Sherlock in any way. He charged back to the bench were they had been seated moments before and crouched down to pick up the black plasticgadget. 

 

He heard voices in the distance, saying something along the lines of _‘Catch him,_ ’ or _‘Stabbed’_ and _‘nurse’;_ But he couldn’t really discern their meaning. He heard loud, uncoordinated footfalls behind him, growing closer; yet he was very much preoccupied with not losing sight of the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t until he heard his own name being called to his back, in _that_ voice, that he spun around frightened. The other’s name a gasp leaving his mouth. 

 

* * *

 

 

He had ran as far as his weak legs could carry him, out into the garden and close to some trees. Even inside his haze he could recognise there, in his path, was the back of a head that represented something that couldn’t possibly be true.

 

He stumbled towards it, bleeding and wrecked. Taking short steps and uttering a soft name, like the only prayer he had ever said. The figure turned around, just as he collapsed to the ground, only to lock the blue eyes of his best friend down with his at the floor.

 

And just like that, without even justification, he was in heaven.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	11. Chapter 10: The Revival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Re•viv•al: |riˈvīvəl| noun.   
> An instance of returning to life or consciousness, restoration of vitality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the long ride and are satisfied with the ending. 
> 
> Every single thing written in this story has been born because of my desire to share some things, to talk about subjects which doesn't really get that much attention in everyday life. The human mind is a fascinating and complicated thing, and nobody really can predicts all its outcomes.
> 
> I would love to hear what your thoughts are on the situations portrayed, the characters that are living them and the story itself. 
> 
> Hope you liked it and thank you for investing time in reading.
> 
> -VesperL2
> 
> PS: Check out the Soundtrack I uploaded for this story. It's the third part of the series.

** CHAPTER 10: THE REVIVAL **

 

 

 

It was the worst thing he had ever seen.

 

The detective lying sprawled on the floor, limbs surrendered in an unnaturally awkward position; looking up as if begging for salvation to be bestowed upon him and yet, at the same time, uninterested on whether he would obtain it. John found the sight frighteningly unnerving; it reminded him too much of a prey that had already been attacked; completely left for dead once the wolves had had their fill. 

 

He hurriedly bent down and tried to lift his friend up, only managing to raise the upper part of his body in his emotionally compromised state, the wound on his own abdomen not even acknowledged in answer to the rush of worry and adrenaline. The nurses and other doctors caught up with them and were trying to pry him out of the soldier’s arms. John refused to surrender his grip on him, and instead asked to be helped up so he could carry the half-alive detective back to the hospital himself. Having to part from his boffin now that he had finally found him would have been close to physically painful for the blogger.

 

He took stumbling but quick steps towards his destiny, staring down at his best friend’s eyes. Eyes that held so much emotion and no small amount of confusion. Blinking up at him as if the light was somehow hurtful to look at. The blonde stubbornly held on to Sherlock with bloodied hands and did his best to drag him out of the consuming and clutching darkness. He had gone through so much, always so alone; and John was not willing to let him abnegate absolution when it might just save him. No matter what he had to do, or for how long, he promised to carry the heavy soul of his friend through the flood, to never let him drown again.

 

* * *

 

 

The air felt cool on his skin, and it was a sensation close to bliss he had never expected to get from such a mundane thing; yet, in his near unconscious state, that tiny moment of euthymia was the only thing resembling emotion that he had the ability to conjure. He was being held up, almost as if floating underwater, watching the fragmented reality from above him move. Bewilderment wrapping around his aching body like a numbing wave, hesitatingly pulling him away from the misery he had endured, even if said imposed slumber of his senses was killing him. The dimming lights were mercifully sparing him the awful harm. 

 

His eyes were unable to really focus on the images staring down at him, yet some part of him knew what it was; he was well acquainted with that faithful presence, enough to feel its absence slice him deeply. However, he felt that he had never really realised how weak he could be, how very breakable he was without it. Not even in those grey, awful days when he believed him to be dead did he truly understand; not until he saw his face again. Not until he got to experience that compassion after being deprived of it for too long. It is not to say that he felt like he deserved it in any way, his sins too great to be washed away by a single stream of kindness; but that grace-like sensation was enough to make him forget about the devil’s imprisonment and his own corruption; if only for a moment.

 

* * *

 

 

John found himself in the much hated situation of waiting again. He felt like that was all he had been doing these past weeks; and it was incredibly frustrating, as well as disheartening: how he was helpless to reassert his convictions about the whole situation. Sherlock had been shuttered off in the operating room for hours now, while the doctors inside tried to fix the injury he had mysteriously sustained. 

 

They still hadn’t been able to find out what had really happened, the seemingly lost video footage of the CCTV was enough to stump even Mycroft Holmes and all of his people. The circumstances being so close to ironic that they would have had John doubling with laughter if he weren’t so numb inside —so very lost in what sort of action to take from then on. The detective was alive, if only just barely, by the miracle of some unknown cause; yet the soldier feared what would become of his friend if they failed to figure said root out.

 

The plastic device was digging its blunt edges into the soft skin covering his palm, but he just couldn’t let it go. He needed to hold on to it as if it were somehow part of his friend, and to put down that blood-smeared box would mean losing what’s left of him forever. Greg was sitting at his left, silently awaiting words from the surgeon. The blonde man could tell he had not been sleeping well since Sherlock was taken, specially by the poorly ironed shirt he wore. John felt a sudden pang of hurt when he remembered the detective was not there to witness his amateur deduction. Lestrade avoided conversation altogether, but he sometimes would turn his head to look at him in worry, the doctor supposed he must look as miserable as he felt.

 

Mycroft was standing next to him, intermittently talking on his phone; apparently running the investigation from afar, yet the blogger could tell he never even considered leaving the waiting room. He glanced around the plain room and occasionally twisted his umbrella in anxiousness, John vowed that whoever had put the detective through all this would pay a high price once they found him, and he was sure none of them would bat an eye at him for it. 

 

The blogger was terrified to say the least. The maniac that had done this was still out there, and no matter the outcome that would transpire once they found him, he would continue to haunt them even once he was already gone. They all had grown so accustomed to this slogging tar-like reality that he doubted their apprehensions, grown so strongly in the cold, would thaw once spring came. _If_ it came at all. 

 

The blogger recalled that conversation they had, all those weeks ago: the night he was stabbed and Sherlock was taken. He remembered how scared the younger man had sounded when he thought no one believed what was happening to him. As if all of his reality was crashing down around him, and there was no one around to validate it. He was wrong, of course; because John had never believed for one single moment that what Sherlock was seeing was only in his mind. That night when both of them had thought it would be the last time they would get to see each other alive. John shuddered at the mere thought of what would have happened if he had really died that day in the alley, and Sherlock had been left like that for the rest of his days; without someone that really trusted him more than he probably should. 

 

Sitting there, he felt restless. Impatient to fast-forward into a resolution. In a fit of impulsiveness, the doctor broke the careful silence. “Where’s Moriarty?” He bravely asked Mycroft; and both of the others turned to look at him with equal levels of shock at his daring question.

 

“Pardon me?” The ginger man asked as if offended. But the blonde did not care in the least. He needed to know where exactly would he be able to carry out his revenge.

 

“Where’s Moriarty?” He repeated. “They said there was a nurse with him, and now he’s nowhere to be found.” John explained, hiding his trembling hand from the sight of the two confused men. “It must be him. He must be the one who stabbed Sherlock.” The soldier insisted, clenching and releasing his fists, never letting go of that stupid useless device. “It has to be him.” He said, more to himself than the others.

 

“Doctor Watson, may I remind you that there is a big probability that the wound was self-inflicted?” Mycroft responded with a dangerous tone that would have made him back down if he weren’t so sick of everyone ignoring the only word that really mattered. John shook his head in denial, almost wishing he could tune out those heretic words. “You need to give up this fantasy of yours that Moriarty has somehow risen from the dead and everything that has happened is anything more than my brother’s fragile psyche playing tricks on him.” He said, knowing it was far from the first time he had said such things to his brother’s best friend. Yet he had never sounded as exasperated as he did then. “If my brother gets out of there,” The government official said pointing to the doors leading to the operating room. “He will need us to keep our heads about us. He will not beneficiate from you indulging his childish beliefs.”

 

“So you are going to allow me near him this time, then?” The younger man demanded in irony. Maybe it was a bit unfair of him, to reproach him a decision he had taken with the detective’s wellbeing in mind, yet all the pent up emotion was coming forth at once; the frustration, the pain. He could not seem to do anything to stop it. “ _When_ Sherlock gets out of there,” He said. “He will need someone who believes in him.” John realised he had stood up from his hospital chair and he didn’t recall doing it. Anger running through him like wild fire. “Who doesn’t just dismiss what he says as madness.”

 

“I knew you would behave like this.” Mycroft countered with a sigh, gripping his umbrella hard enough to hurt. 

 

“Like what?” The doctor questioned. “Like his friend? His _family_?” That last word was uttered in challenge, deliberately disapproving of the way the older man was handling the situation. He knew there was only so much the British Government could do for Sherlock, but believing he had hallucinated those horrors would only break him further. Make him loose his head even more. Specially since that wasn’t the case at all. 

 

He was taking sharp breaths and was quite sure that if he didn’t calm down he would most likely plummet to the floor in hyperventilation. Mycroft looked like he might not be as sure at his own stance as he should anymore; that inkling of suspicion weaving its way to his eyes, while the rest of his face remained stoic. John could see that he didn’t believe him, not completely anyway; but he may not be too opposed to the idea that it could just as well be possible his baby brother was not lying. Even if it wasn’t about Moriarty, but someone else instead. But that was not enough for John; a ‘maybe’ will never be enough when it came to Sherlock. For him, it would always be certain truth. Maybe blindingly believing in his friend made him a stupid man, but he’d take that over the alternative any day.

 

Just when he was about to unleash all his rage over the frankly underserving man, a surgeon came through said doors to halt their accusations with news. News that Sherlock had pulled through, and was alive.

 

John felt like he was suspended in a void of nothingness. Unable to hear any details past the most important part. Recognising the fear inside his imagination of what would come next. Of what would the detective do once he woke up to a world so different: without the protection they had let him built. A world where John Watson was very much alive, and very much the reason Sherlock would probably lose his hold on reality once and for all.

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Sherlock felt was the rough hospital sheets beneath his body as he woke. Bringing forth hazy memories and half-reminisced reasons on why he was there in the first place. He remembered the shadow, the demon, and the pain. The horrible pain on his body, in his soul, after his meeting with that terrifying darkness. Still, he had lived; he had been given a continued existence, even after he managed to disregard the very same thing so completely, even after he had thought he would be a flatliner without question. How many times can one come back from that?

 

His brother was right in front of him. Talking and asking questions worriedly while still succeeding in an illusion of control. Saying his name and explaining a few things that he no longer had the ability, nor the current energy, to bother himself with. The beast had already creeped its way inside of his very bones, and his regard for the state of his transport had evolved from inconsequential to completely obsolete. 

 

However, that was not the sole reason why he could not really seem to concentrate on what Mycroft was trying to convey. Across the room, standing next to the door, was something that threatened to obliterate the walls he had carefully created; every lie he had told himself to protect what could be left of his damaged psyche. He had desperately shut himself inside solipsism for so long, that he was no longer able to even question whether what he saw was real, or just another device snatched out of his own mind. He had become weary and untrusting of anything on the outside.

 

He watched the man he had so utterly trusted, standing there and looking at him as if he were every bit as afraid as he felt. The kind of look that leaves an almost physical mark behind. The unassuming apparition, that which its mere presence had to be a ruse, a trick of the light, because it was not possible. Never again. Not outside his own head. It was wrong, so very _wrong._

 

Mycroft caught sight of the intensity of the other’s gazes, and sensed a probable unraveling of fragile minds of which he had no business being a part. Even if he was hesitant of leaving the genius, he straightened and patted the hand of his little brother once more in goodbye. The boffin tore his eyes away from the doctor a moment to watch his brother leave in silent anguish. A couple of seconds later, the elder was gone and the both of them were alone in that room.

 

What had happened inside Sherlock’s mind was too difficult to erase, too real to dismiss even in the presence of proof. The string that had tethered him to existence had snapped and he doubted there was anything anyone could ever do to reverse that. Moriarty had used John as a perfect weapon to hurt him; he had smelled blood and injury, and rushed in. The world began to shake around him; crookedly twisting and transforming itself again, until he was left in an unfamiliar place once more. He was so exhausted of evolution.

 

No matter what he did; it didn’t even mattered whether the figure of the doctor in front of him was really there. The curly-haired man knew he would end up losing the most important person in his life nonetheless. Self-destruction was such a beautiful thing now, and he was aware that if authentic, John would never condone it. Specially not now that he had been transformed into nothing more than ammunition.

 

They looked at each other, looking as if they had never really seen the other before. John frowned, but walked the few steps that separated him from his friend’s bed.Once he was next to him, he stopped. Sherlock was lost, set adrift after so many different imprisonments, not really believing he would ever be free. He could feel as if someone were still grabbing his ankles from under the bed, and it terrified him. His brain, what was left of his extraordinary intellectual prowess, was yelling at him, warning him not to trust what he believed he saw. It had happened countless of times before, and he would not be healed by the appearance of yet another impersonator. Nothing that his mind could conjure up would be of any comfort. 

 

The soldier must have sensed that, for his face turned from worried to devastated in a moment. Moisture gathered in the blonde’s eyes, and the younger man despaired at the sight. Even if he was almost certain the whole scenario was a result of his psyche just before his demise, it would always be wrong to see John Watson cry. “I know I’m not coming home.” He admitted to the vision, with a calmness he certainly didn’t feel. “I know I died.” He said. “That I’m dead.” 

 

The other looked at him in astonishment, his blue eyes spelling heart-ache in the deepest form. “But it’s fine.” He tried to reassure the soldier; feeling as his soul was still trying to hold on. “Don’t cry.” He pleaded, and the hallucination shook his head in denial, but the detective knew it to be true.

 

“Sherlock,” He said, and it rang true and loud in the other’s ears, making him doubt on the falseness once more. He _couldn’t_ believe it, but maybe it _was_ true. That word was as much a promise as a kindness: hearing his name in a way that didn’t make him want to crawl out of his skin. The detective had seldom ever been offered such a gift of unconditional support and a proof so inconclusive on whether he was actually conjuring all of it up. 

 

He knew he should not, by any means, accept it. Even if there was nothing more that he wanted in the vast universe than to believe he was not broken and didn’t need any fixing. He should allow his friend —if he was even his real friend— to escape now, while he could. Now that he had hell hanging from one of his legs on good days, and holding his hand on bad ones; the detective would no longer be able to protect him —or any of the others for that matter. 

 

Still, sinner-men are weak, and he could feel himself not being able to resist the pull of the deluding happiness he was being presented. Regretful of what he was doing, he felt the familiar burning behind his eyelids begin, and with a choked sob he uttered his answer. 

 

“John.”

 

* * *

 

 

There is a place, always a treacherous gap, that defies and shuns out any classification.Sherlock had been an avid enemy of that space his whole life. Always a paragon of the extremes. Always too loud or too quiet, too much or not enough. Never really doing anything by halves. But that was Sherlock _before_ he was taken; now, he didn’t quite know where he fitted, _if_ he fitted at all. The detective was in a perpetual state of ambiguity, a stitch away from being healed, and yet it would only take one last wound to undo him completely. Painfully soaring between alive and deceased. 

 

He no longer felt comfortable inside his old life. His skin was like an ill-fitted piece of clothing that used to belong to him. So far away he was of his former self that he seldom could recall a time when he didn’t feel like that; where happiness could have been possible for him. He had forsaken all that inside his captivity, with no hope of finding it ever again. He had wandered too far away and now he didn’t know how to come back.

 

The ever-present shadow figure next to his bed only served as a reminder of the hell in which he felt he was still trapped. Lingering silently at his side and never leaving him alone, no matter how much he wanted it to. Chasing away with its bright eyes both his fragile tranquility, and his almost non-existent will; up to the point where he didn’t feel it was his own any more, and that it hadn’t been in a long time. 

 

Even in his dreams he was not able to smother those thoughts. They always seemed to find their way back in. They stubbornly refused to die, yet he was absolutely certain they would eventually kill him. He longed for an elusive reality where he was able to sleep and dream peacefully; unperturbed by vicious nightmares that woke him up sweating and which often frightened John to distraction.

 

His friends came to see him often —or rather what he thought were his friends, since he was still not convinced anything about the situation was legitimate— but he was hesitant of participating in anything past simple questions. The deep sorrow and fear he felt inside left him unable to talk, think, _live_ past everything that happened. Still chokingly trapped inside the belly of the beast. The futility of his own existence seeping through his pores each second, with no respite until he had convinced himself he didn’t deserve that freedom. The whispering darkness had become somewhat familiar; friendly faces were not.

 

Somehow, in some sort of twisted manner, the worst was when John was there. Not because he didn’t appreciate his presence, —it was as close to divine as he would ever get— but because he felt as if the joke were cruelest when he looked at his supposed blogger’s face. It fractured the floor beneath his feet and abruptly dropped him from oblivious bliss unto the hard wet _real_ concrete. Juggled every thought in his brain, no matter how sacred or deranged. 

 

He had fashioned his own death into such a flawless art-form that he didn’t quite know how to do the _living_ anymore. He had the notion that he had to be _something_ , some thing of which he failed to recognise the nature. To by any means attempt perfecting himself in order to even reassemble what he used to be. Yet he found himself unable to achieve that on his own. He needed someone to break him out of that prison first; to remind him who he used to be before all that misery happened. But it was of no use, he felt like he would never gain back what he had lost, and he had to accept that. He just hoped they will remember him once he failed. Once he was already gone.

 

With that piece of jagged broken mirror, he had deliberated. He had chosen something. Now he had to live —as was never his purpose— with the previously unforeseen consequences of that choice. His own demolition had looked like a very small price to pay in exchange of denying the consulting criminal what he desired. What he wanted him to become. But now he found himself having to take the fall for it all. He had been prepared for anything and done it. He had won, yes; but in the process, his own cure had proven lethal to himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was far from okay. John was all too aware of it. When he would scream, and rage, and explode before; now he would only sit in that bed like a half-living corpse. Barely seeing what was happening around him, seemingly afraid of even uttering phrases of more than two words at a time. Refusing any help.

 

The doctor was sad to admit that the man they had pulled out from the debris was not Sherlock. He had passed from high-alert mania to a faded-out version of himself that lacked the fire and will to do anything other than _be_ there; and even that often looked like a challenge to him. John never thought that a day would come when he would want to see the detective paranoid and delusional like he had been prior to learning he was alive; but anything was better than the hollow expression he currently had on his face. The doctor loathed to imagine what would become of him if the situation kept worsening. Slowly withering away in constant diminuendo.

 

John had vowed to him and to himself that he would do whatever it took to rescue his friend from that darkness. But he should have seen that the genius would deny or defuse any sort of approach. The detective seemed distressed every time he was in the room, eyeing him up in suspicion as if he were weary of his presence. All of his attempts were no good against the armour the younger man had built to protect his wounded self. It may have saved him from whatever it was he lived at the devil’s claws, but it was presently isolating him; ruthlessly chocking him away from ever gaining that longed peace. 

 

He found he was not able to compete with Sherlock’s demons. Not for lack of care or skill, but because his friend refused to let him. He was half in love with them. Like morbid lovers, those thoughts had taken a firm hold of his soul and now the detective was adamant in not letting them go. Obsessively mulling them over and over inside his head. Thoughts so cunning and infections that they soon clouded and eradicated all other knowledge or sense of freedom from his brain, leaving him starving for their existence. Every day he conjured them up in his imagination; and every night he went to bed and made love to them. And there was nothing any of them could do but watch as the most incredible man they knew was torn apart by his own psyche. Sometimes in order to get to the heart, you could just tear through skin, and bone, and blood until you reached. John could do nothing but hold out faith that they _could_ reach.

 

The doctors and psychiatrists kept trying: pushing, but Sherlock wouldn’t budge. He refused to talk about his captivity or his attack, and anything revolving Moriarty was strictly off limits. The investigation had reached a dead end, and the only one with the required information to solve it was too far gone to help.

 

He had talked with Mycroft on the phone that morning. Yet the conversation had left him anything but reassured. “I don’t even know if he remembers any of it,” The doctor had insisted. Frustrated at his inability to do anything else to help. “As much as I want Moriarty, or whoever did this to him to rot in bleeding hell, I won’t push him, Mycroft. He’ll break forever.” And it was true, he feared what all of their insistence could do to the boffin’s fragile state.

 

“I’m aware my brother is a hero in your standards.” He had said, after a few seconds of complete silence. His tone was unlike anything the soldier had ever heard from him. “But that doesn’t mean that he is well, Dr. Watson; and unfortunately it doesn’t mean he will ever be again.” John hated the trueness of those words. No matter what they attempted, there was a possibility that all they could do for him at this point was the equivalent of palliative care. “Every since the day I met you I’ve been aware the impact you have on Sherlock has the ability to completely change him.” The older man explained, and the doctor ran a hand through his hair in woe. “You would either be the making or the eventual destruction of my little brother.” An echo of a past conversation rang on his ears, as he felt the metaphorical weight descend on his shoulders again. “It’s time for you to prove which one.” 

 

Everyone knew that it was unfair to put that sort of pressure on him. Even the blonde himself was aware of how wrong it settled on his stomach: to have that power without ever requesting it; without knowing how to utilise it. But they could not deny that if John Watson was not able to save Sherlock Holmes, no one would.

 

“Do you really think he can be fixed?” The blogger asked in a childish attempt to salvage whatever was left of his hope. What could happen if he tried? Would the detective keep on putting up resistance? Would it make a difference?

 

“I don’t know,” The other replies. “But if someone has a chance, it’s you.” With that, the conversation was over. John took a couple of moments alone. Reassured that Mrs. Hudson was inside the room keeping an eye on Sherlock. He knew the detective would not liked it if he found out they were deciding about his future without consulting him. He clutched the device and breathed deeply. He would do this, he refused to take a ‘no’ for an answer anymore. 

 

When he entered the hospital room he saw Mrs. Hudson sitting at the bedside, chatting away at an unmoving detective, at least this time he actually appeared to be listening. She had that effect on him. John sat on the bed, careful not to touch or crowd his friend in any way. He watched the both of them for a moment, and let himself be wrapped up in a fog of absentmindedness, which made it more of a surprise when he heard. “What’s that?” Coming out from Sherlock’s mouth. He turned to see Mrs. Hudson wearing the same expression of bewilderment as him.

 

“Oh, it’s-” He replied, after schooling his face to avoid showing his shock. “I picked it up from where- where they found you.” He knew it was such a vague answer, but he was weary of saying too much and losing this chance by spooking the younger man.

 

“Can I see it?” He tentatively requested, and it was the first time he had actually asked for something since he was placed on that restraining bed. 

 

“Yeah, sure. ‘Course.” John couldn’t deny him this, so he passed the plastic device to him and tucked his hands back in his pockets. Feeling oddly bereft without it. “I don’t really know what it is, and it’s okay if you don’t remem-” He started babbling reassuringly but he dwindled down once he caught sight of the other’s devastated eyes. “What’s wrong?” He asked, the adrenaline surging to his body in fear again.

 

“I know where he is.” The brunette said, on such small a voice that it took a moment for John to recognise what he was saying.

 

“What?” He questioned, as the landlady stood up and grabbed the detective’s prone hand in support.

 

“I know where he is.” The younger man insisted. Gripping the older woman’s hand viciously. The both of them in a strange connection of determination.

 

“Who?” John asked, trying to get his friend to share something, any bit of information that could help them solve this.

 

“Moriarty.” He conspiratorially whispered, as if the name would taint the very air around them. _That_ was definitely not what John was expecting.

 

* * *

 

 

Turns out the device was an instrument that Moriarty had used on Sherlock repeated times. Shocking him with mild voltage every time it made contact with his skin. According to Mycroft’s people the voltage was not high enough to leave any discernible trace behind, yet it was extremely uncomfortable and distressing if exposed to it constantly. John could only imagine how terrible being treated like this would have been to his friend; none of them knew anything about what the detective had gone through yet, but the soldier could recognise a pattern emerging. Moriarty had not only mistreated him, but the evidence suggested something closer to torture, both physical and psychological. John longed to get his hands on the bastard, teach him a thing or two about pain.

 

Sherlock, in one of his bouts of actual presence of mind, had hinted that the origin of said device would be where his captor was hiding. Of course, that was not a lot, but apparently for the secret professionals at the employment of the British Government who were extremely efficient was enough, and they managed to trace it back to the only Russian _criminal_ technology development facility in the city. Mycroft looked more at ease when purpose was returned to him, a real way to help his brother proved to be an adequate balm to his worry. John would never again be so quick in trusting what appeared to be luck.

 

A sweep of the place showed an array of hostages and slaves recovered but no Moriarty on sight; just a message on the walls. The words _“The sinner-man ran to the devil. He was waiting.”_ followed by an address the only thing they had to prove it really was the consulting criminal. And they now found themselves facing the biggest dilemma. 

 

It wasneedless to say that Moriarty would have consequences planned if they did not manage to deliver that for which he was asking so explicitly on his request. To rush a direct attack of the building could risk losing a large amount of innocent civilians andnot to mention trigger any other trick the maniac could had up his sleeve. The only way to come out of the situation at the winning side was playing by the criminal’s rules and draw him out, enough to be apprehended or neutralise without many casualties. The only problem was they needed a very specific person for this task, one to whom going in there alone would mean catastrophe. 

 

John did not care about anything else, in his eyes James Moriarty on the streets was a small price to pay for having Sherlock safe with them, and he was not ready to surrender him to that hell once more. Never again. He turned to watch his friend from the chair at the corner of the hospital room. Lately they had him sometimes unrestrained, able to move freely inside the room without his wound acting up too much for a while each day. But the detective never took that chance, he remained curled up on the bed and watched life’s proceedings from the safety of the shelter he had created for himself in that bed. With the only addition that now he asked about Moriarty’s whereabouts every time someone walked into the room. To say that it was unnerving to John would be a gross understatement. 

 

It had been only a matter of time before he came to know about the house and the message on the wall. They just couldn’t keep lying to him, not if they wanted him to recover his firm grasp in reality. John came to regret that decision the second he heard the unexpected, stubborn demand coming from inside the hospital room where Mycroft was debriefing him. “Take me to him.” Came the surprisingly loud voice from the man that had been an spectator, if nothing else, of his own life for the last weeks. 

 

His older brother had halted his explanation. Clearly taken aback by the request as well. “That’s not an option.” He heard him respond firmly and let out a lungful breath in relief. He was terribly afraid of what could have happen if they had decided Sherlock was actually fit for the task.

 

Still, that obviously did not deter the detective from his demand. Only made him more sneaky about it. Trying to confuse and criss-cross information until one of them would be stupid or oblivious enough to help him get out or obtain the address. Needless to say, his psychiatrist was not happy about that. It looked like a big step back from his recovery, even if he did look like he had a bit more life inside of him. 

 

The situation finally came to a head the day when Lestrade came back to an empty hospital room from having stepped out less than two minutes to grab a cup of coffee. The restrains they had attached to him once more were open, and the lock appeared to have been forced. “Bollocks!” The cup he was holding fell to the ground and spilled its contents while the other took out his phone and started running after him.

 

Thankfully, Sherlock was still fairly weak and Greg caught him seven blocks away. John and Mycroft arrived a few seconds later to the detective struggling inside the other’s grip, and manically talking in circles; Babbling things about penitence and completion. The doctor grabbed his shoulders to stop the trashing, while his brother stood back in astonishment. John shook off his own jacket to cover his friend’s frame with it. It broke the soldier’s heart to see his body look so thin, and his expression so lost. Hoping they will someday be able to figure out what it would take to undo what had been done to him, to make him feel well again.

 

“He thought he could run for it.” The DI said and John stared at him as he buttoned up the coat. “As if we would simply let him.” He scoffed and Sherlock seemed to slump in defeat against his friend at the words.

 

“Maybe we should.” Mycroft, who until then had been silent as a tomb, commented; to the surprise of the other three men. “This won’t stop otherwise.” The ginger continued. “He will try again.” John could not believe what he was experiencing, specially not the grateful look that the younger man gave his older sibling. 

 

John took a final glance at Sherlock and stepped aside to talk to the government official without the other listening in. “Mycroft, no.” He said, more worried and scared than forceful. “I won’t- I won’t lose him, not again.” His fists trembled and he fought hard not to double over in fear.

 

Mycroft swallowed as if trying to prepare himself for his next words. “Maybe we won’t have to.” The sadness in his eyes was rivaled only by his determination, as if what his brother needed was a chance to dust away his demons for himself a final time. Perhaps he was right, but the doctor didn’t want to risk it.

 

“Moriarty implied no back-up.” He insisted, trying to convince him against throwing Sherlock back into wolves. “He will hurt him if we bring in the calvary.” Whispered John. His breathing was rapidly becoming suffocating by the mere prospect.

 

“Then we bring no back-up.” Easily answered the older man. 

 

John shuddered and switched his gaze from one Holmes to the other. He was pinned under the sight of Sherlock struggling inside the crushing grip Greg had on him, clearly ready to make a run for it again. Mycroft was accurate in his description of the situation, it was inevitable that Sherlock would attempt to find Moriarty on his own if they looked the other way; for guilt or revenge, he failed to determine, but he believed if they did not lend their assistance, then any chance that his friend had of coming out of this in one piece would be null. “We can’t- just let him go.” He acquiesced.

 

Mycroft’s face morphed into respect and approval, possibly at being on the same page about the next action to take; they may not like what had to be done, but they both agreed they would do it if that is what it took in order to protect Sherlock as much as they could. They may be two completely different people, but they cared too much about the detective to give in. “Don’t worry, Dr. Watson,” The brother assured. “He won’t be going in there alone.”

 

That’s how the doctor found himself bundling his friend up in his brown jacket —his coat had been lost in the abduction, John had readily given his— and putting the earpiece in place. After being told that he would get what he desired, Sherlock seemed unable to do anything else by himself, so the soldier was left with the task of preparing the detective to go in and negotiate with a psychopath that probably wanted nothing else than to kill him. At last, they were outside the address where Moriarty said to meet him, and the team they had prepared were already on their posts. Even if Sherlock was supposed to enter alone, they all agreed it would be foolish not to prepare for the possibility of a bigger attack, and the inevitable struggle there would be if everything went their way and they had to apprehend him.

 

The genius appeared anxious and scared at the same time, which made the blonde wonder if they weren’t making the biggest mistake at letting him do exactly as Moriarty wanted. Well, in reality, John was very sure they _were_ making a mistake, but stopping the curly-haired man from going would be a bigger one, so they would have to try, do their best and hope it turned out in their favour. Even if he felt sick at the mere idea of it.

 

The blogger finished up with the younger man and leaned back, as to check twice that he hadn’t missed anything. His friend was relentlessly staring at the floor, as if gravity were pulling his gaze downwards. It was so very wrong: looking at him in a constant state of helplessness. Standing there in the wrong coat, shaking and placing so much concentration in the simple act of not breaking away at the seams. He did not look like Sherlock at all; and that terrified the soldier more than the consulting criminal ever did. The doctor stepped closer again and enveloped his best friend in a fierce hug, trying to show the little comfort he knew he could provide to him in the situation. Maybe all of this would turn out alright. Maybe they weren’t condemned to capsize just yet; he thought. Still, Sherlock never raised his arms to embrace him. 

 

After a few moments, the blogger stepped back once more and with a nod sent him off. Feeling like he was letting him go in many more ways than one. As he watched the retreating back of the detective make its way inside the house, he exhaled. Fighting the tears gathering in his eyes and trying not to show how much this was breaking him again. Seeing him as mirage, like he were already dead. 

 

Sherlock was not really around to play his role anymore, he probably would never be again; not in the same way. So the task fell to him, then: a final effort. An eulogy. In imitation of his friend’s thinking pose, he folded his hands below his chin and prayed.

 

* * *

 

 

The house did not look overtly abandoned, but Sherlock’s eyes —even when mildly incapacitated— could notice that it hadn’t been inhabited in a long time. The paint was scratched in some places and the dust that settled on the surfaces was begging to tell him a thousand stories; except he didn’t want to think about them right now, he had one purpose in mind and he was adamant in fulfilling it. 

 

He had to really push himself in order to keep going and not turn around and flee. Every tiny and great flame of fear he felt had to be kept on the edge outside, at least barely at the border where it could not hinder his attempt of fixing himself. Protecting his own psyche with a thin glass where he could gaze at the phobias, keep them within his sight but not able to penetrate his thinly veiled resolve. He felt the subtlest of hesitation would strike the match, and he was not ready to risk it. This _had_ to work; otherwise, there was nothing else he could do. It was his last try. The last of his resources; and if it failed, he would end up with the pain himself. 

 

He approached the sitting room where he believed the criminal to be hiding, and once he saw him, he halted. Standing with his arms stretched at his sides in surrender and offering. This was him now, the sacrificial lamb that wanted nothing more than to be spared from the feast. Making an effort to ignore the voices inside his own brain that begged him not to make a sound, and maybe then _he_ wouldn’t find them at all. Caught inside a frozen nightmare. 

 

The Irish maniac lifted himself before him from the armchair in a graceful and controlled manner. Grinning and leaning back in an act of power excerption and confidence. Sherlock had no doubts about who was in control here. No delusions of who it was that would win; but still, he hoped he could somehow find absolution in another’s devotion. Did someone ever thought about imploring for someone like him? To intervene for the sinner who needs it the most? He found he didn’t know, and did not have time to ponder the answer either. Hope for him had always just been a fleeting thing. Some fever that had ran away from him and wreaked havoc at his expenses. Bending the meaning of the word would not save him now, nor would it exonerate all his mistakes. He would have to save himself.

 

“Hello, Sherl!” The other excitedly exclaimed. The false endearment falling easily from his forked tongue, so used already to the taunts. The detective fought the basic urge to cringe. Feeling dirty and wanting to scrape his skin raw.

 

“Moriarty,” He managed to grunt out in acknowledge. The criminal must not see his weakness; if he showed any fragility, he would latch on like a sucking leach and never let go again. He strained not to let his voice break.

 

“I’m so glad you decided to come back to me.” Moriarty sing-songed. He grinned and took a step closer. One of his hands was inside his pocket, and the spidery fingers on the other were drumming a consuming and entrancing melody that distracted the boffin’s worried mind. 

 

“Yes, well.” He replied with false nonchalance. “The hospital was becoming a bit… dull.” He lied and stashed both his hands inside John’s warm jacket to hide his shaking from sight. He knew he was spiraling out of control already, he could recognise it rising over his limbs. 

 

The demon in front of him regarded him with a careful gaze, probably sizing him up and determining whether his new fall would be easy to orchestrate. Roving his eyes slowly over his whole vulnerable body. “What did big brother say when you told him you wanted to meet with me?” He softly delivered. A delicate voice scrambling what was real inside his brain. A flash of uniforms came to him, barely there enough to remember correctly, despite the fact that it would have been merely minutes prior. The element of surprise was his brother’s sole strategy. It was good that the detective did not intend to apprehend or attack him. His only objective was of a different nature.

 

“He-” Sherlock started, but found he could not finish. It was too much to take, he was already too poisoned to endure the amount of pressure the situation demanded. The exact reason why it was so important to do this. “He…” The younger man said lamely while he felt the frozen claws closing in around his throat. 

 

The villain chuckled in amusement. “Is that why he put up a team of his minions to get me?” He asked. Sherlock knew James could see the surprise in his face. The boffin’s breathing rate started picking up, silently panicking and wondering how in the world could his enemy already know that. “Oh, silly Sherlock.” He commented and ran one of his hands through the other’s disheveled curls. “Remember that you can’t hide anything from me.” Sherlock flinched back and created a distance between them. Trying to hide his distress. 

 

“I know you,” The criminal continued. “Each and every single part of your soul.” James’ comfortable attitude made a stark contrast against Sherlock’s pale face. Trembling and sweating in fear, so much he had to lean against the wall beside him to prevent himself from falling over. “I know every one of the secrets you keep, and the crevices where you hide them.” The devilish smile breaks something inside the sleuth’s skin. He can’t do anything but nod at the truth of that statement. Who, in the end, knew him more than the man who had made him?

 

Moriarty seemed to enjoy the teardrops being released from the other’s eyes, but made a disgusted grimace when his gaze fell on the brown jacket he was wearing. Quickly recognising it as a Watson banner.“Tell me, did your pet cry when he let you go?” He cruelly poured salt on the younger man’s lacerations. Sherlock shrugged and closed his eyes in agony. It was such an easy thing, falling back into the pattern of marionette to the puppeteer. Letting him hold all the strings and do with him what he wished. 

 

“They just wanted to watch what would happen, didn’t they? What would the broken man would do next?” That sentence made the curly-haired man halt. No matter how much he had changed, his friends would never act like that. However, Moriarty may be right when he said none of them could unring the metaphorical bell. Where they even real? He couldn’t get distracted now, not by the pain the other was inflicting, he had to follow his own plan. “I bet they are just laughing and not caring what happened to you.” Insecurity was seeping through the protective wall. Something inside him that made him doubt whether he really was so sure they could ever feel anything towards him but pity. He knew that was not a good thought, but he didn’t seem to be able to help himself. “And why would they, right?” The criminal went on, laughing and just stepping back to watch the whole devastation that was now Sherlock Holmes. “Why would they care for the useless excuse of a person who killed poor precious John Wa-”

 

He never got to finish his sentence since a swift projectile flew its way through the air and made a home directly in the centre of James’ forehead. The detective jumped back startled, as the body of the other started limply falling backwards unto the floor. Descending as if in slow motion. Sherlock was still reeling, not really knowing what had happened until he saw the dead, unblinking eyes of the criminal staring at the emptiness above; grin still on his thin lips. He had not been sure of it until he lookedthe finality of death in the face. That’s when the hysteria began.

 

“No!” He cried out in dismay as the officers flooded the place after hearing the shot. He rushed to the criminal’s side and knelt beside the lifeless form, lowering his knees on a pool of crimson blood. He started frantically pounding on his chest in a futile attempt to bring him back. Pleading with the criminal to come back. He could not allow him to go without telling him what he needed to know.

 

“Sherlock!” The detective heard a voice cry out for him, gaining volume as it got closer. Yet, he could not get sidetracked now, it was imperative that he brought Moriarty back to life. “You can’t die!” He desperately demanded while his fists bruised the already deceased flesh. “You can’t!”

 

He felt arms surrounding his waist, trying to pull him away from his only salvation. In the distance there were faint, quiet voices of commands to get him out, but he ignored them. His hands and the majority of his front were now covered in blood. The strong limbs around him pulled harder and he flailed his legs in order to return to his task. Fighting the hold that wanted to rob him of everything. “You made me like this!” He exclaimed to the corpse. Shaking him by the shoulders and making a last attempt to revive him. 

 

Bit by bit, he was separated from Moriarty, with a few tries in between to get back next to him. “He can make me Sherlock Holmes again.” He said in lieu of an explanation. Still weakly fighting against the grip John had on him. Feeling more manic than he ever had. He knew his only chance to feel well once more wasn’t gone, it _couldn’t_ be gone. 

 

The blogger enfolded the other against his chest while the younger man’s tears soaked through his shirt. Crying disconsolately in heaving sobs. “I want to be Sherlock Holmes again.” He said, in a thin voice which revealed he was close to complete colapse. 

 

“I know, Sherlock.” John reassured him and rubbed his back with one of his palms in comfort. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

 

He knew it was wrong to run. To escape the confinement they had tried to pass up as liberty. It wasn’t always he felt like that; in fact, the majority of the time he felt incredibly thankful for the protective structure around him. Because no matter how haunted he felt, the conclusion would always be the same in the end: He found himself unable to inhabit anywhere else and that, in itself, was another sort of prison. One he paradoxically enjoyed and cherished up to the point of desperation. 

 

He was completely aware that himself was not the only person he was hurting when he did this. The panic would be severe, as it usually was, and it would leave them to wonder whether they would reach him in time every occasion he chose to do it. Yet he found the yearning undeniable. The suffocating air swirled around him until he had no other choice but to bow down and let himself be dragged to where he always went. Not always to the same place, but of the same kind.

 

Soft snowflakes trickled down from the sky and stuck where they landed. Too few to really matter yet, but there nonetheless to enhance the lavender hue of the sky where nighttime was still clinging to its surface. He placed his barefoot feet over the freezing cold grass, his thin pijamas the only thing to shield him from the brutal condition, but he never minded. He reveled in it. 

 

He had climbed the fence, moving his way through the semidarkness swiftly, aimlessly. He just knew he wanted to get away and the only places of real comfort for those moments were solitude and a cemetery. Protection, solace, support, they would all come later, once they found him. But for now, there was the silence of death, and it was disarming. No footsteps, or anything else to distract him from his train of thought. The one that he needed to experience in order to cleanse his brain, his soul. The silhouettes of the gravestones were soothing somehow. As if they were the ones that possessed all those regrets. As if they reminded him that somewhere there was one just like this for the figure of deep shadows. The demon that he later found out was shot by none other than his best friend. And if John was not an angel for scaring the monsters away, he failed to determine what he was.

 

Mycroft had persuaded —ordered— the hospital to release him into his and his physician’s care. And so, he had been returned to 221B, with a list of preventive and cautious actions to which he had to be subjected. It was needless to say that the pale yellow pills they were still giving him were not entirely encouraging. But he endured all of their cares, because he was lost and they were the only ones trying to find him, to get him back home. Even if they ignored the fact that with the criminal gone, that would probably never be possible, not in the same way. The tightrope had broken, and he was floating endlessly; and he had to accept that.

 

The life he had carved out for himself was decaying in front of his eyes, the fantasy withering away, and it would not change its course unless he managed to shake himself out of the obsessive rut. John had promised that he would stay with him, that he would see this through, all without inquiring whether he was fine. He had said that he would instead wait for him to say it, to feel it, to _mean_ it. And that he would trust him and his word, just like he had since the beginning. Because no matter how insane or impossible, he would _always_ believe in him. Sherlock cherished the loyalty immensely.

 

His steps on the paths among the tombs and trees were hurried but not really swift. He chose instead to wander patiently through the last minutes of the night. Letting all his phantoms give him chase; all his fears and apprehensions following him in a sickening parade that he found himself getting used to leading. They had become a part of him, and he now understood what a naive fool he had been when he thought he could erase the past. There was no room for panacea. No matter how much he acted like it never happened, it had, and it would stay with him forever. 

 

He berated himself for letting all of this happen to him, and wondered why he ever allowed it. He did not like to think that it had somehow been his fault, yet the alternative of believing the maniac had been just impossible to overpower was more distressing. He was still learning to live inside a world without the strange spectre, he was in no need of analysing the height of his power.

 

The delicate movements he made while he watched the leaves on the trees turn colours were enchanting. Yet he never let anyone see them. Privacy and isolation had become once again a companion. A necessity that he acknowledged would eat him alive if unfed. Whatever he needed, he _had_ to see to it by himself. The quiet, soft whispers of the wind hitting the branches felt like a caress on his skin. He ran his fingertips on the edges of the jade seas and felt as if they removed some of his pollution. That permanent red blemish he possessed on his hands.

 

He failed to conclude the reason why he had to do this, but maybe those locations where the only places where he could hope that the things he buried would stay that way forever. That when he finally laid the shadow to sleep, it would never rise again.Or perhaps it was the undeniable win that nature made over them. Growing above something so dead and reshaping the world as they went. It didn’t really matter why he did it. He just let his feet go were they pleased.

 

The lilac sky was giving way to the first light of the cold day, and he walked and ran until he found he could go on no longer. Falling to his knees like a domino setting something in motion. Even if his brittle self felt more as a light feather. Fragile in its influence, but peaceful. Quiet. Soaring by himself.

 

He let his back hit the ground, sinking into the thin layer of snow and water puddled there. He was aware of the possibility of getting hypothermia. He really could cause his body some damage, but the freezing cold seeping through his bones felt like heaven, every spike of ice on his sensitive skin was like forgiveness. 

 

He couldn’t really hear anything, not here. Everything was empty, clear. His hands and feet tentatively experienced the smooth but rough textures beneath him and he slowly descended into calmness for the first time in God knows how long. 

 

He closed his eyes and he was not able to see a thing. Not pleasant nor terrible. Just emptiness. The big black void of silence and nothingness. 

 

Missed, cherished, blessed darkness.

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The 40th Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1777792) by [VesperL2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperL2/pseuds/VesperL2)




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